


Subconscious Comfort

by The_Butterfly_Mistress



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Familial Love, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Torture, delusional, mental regression(sorta), papa!Lestrade, spoilers for Reichenbach and The Empty Hearse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-22
Updated: 2015-05-23
Packaged: 2018-01-09 14:52:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 42,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1147296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Butterfly_Mistress/pseuds/The_Butterfly_Mistress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Au. Spoilers for Reichenbach and The Empty Hearse Mycroft managed to rescue Sherlock's body, but what about his mind? </p><p>"His mental state was harder to gauge. Sherlock still interacted with his friends and family, but not the real them. He reacted to his figments of them. "</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Subconscious Comfort

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for Reichenbach and The Empty Hearse
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any of its characters.
> 
> Unbetaed, all mistakes are my own. I'll admit I wrote this while half asleep, but I think I caught the majority of mistakes when proofreading...the same night.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

Subconscious Comfort  
Temporary: lasting for only a limited period of time; not permanent. They had diagnosed his condition as temporary. They didn’t clarify as to how long temporary would be though, just that he would return to his normal self eventually. It was disconcerting and heartbreaking for the time being, watching such a strong man become a vulnerable child. His features remain the same; he still looks like the same old Sherlock he’s known and missed. The same Sherlock that had insulted, amazed, and saved John and so many others. But…he isn’t the same. The young detective’s demeanor and expressions are different. His brain still functions in the same manner it always has, working out puzzles and information. His eyes still take in every detail, even the ones people try and hide, he just can’t make out what it all means every time.  
Two years after the man had jumped off that wretched hospital rooftop, to save all those who held a piece of his heart, he had been returned to them, alive. What more could they ask for? They were given the miracle that they prayed for…they didn’t exactly specify more than being alive.  
Mycroft had located his little brother after months of no communication with him. The man had then personally overseen the extraction of Sherlock from the grasps of the Serbian terrorists. According to the man who embodied the British government, the young genius had been held captive for quite a awhile, anywhere from two to three months. Mycroft had an agent on the inside of the terrorist cell, keeping an eye on the self-proclaimed sociopath, but was unable to interfere or pass on information before Mycroft had come to the rescue, as he himself was under suspicion. The information the young agent was able to give afterwards though was heart wrenching.   
Sherlock’s physical state told much of the happenings that occurred during his prolonged stay in the makeshift prison. Scars and burns marred his previously flawless body. X-rays showed healed and healing breaks. Fresh and old wounds littered and stained what was once porcelain skin. His long curls were matted with muck and grease, tangled into a rat’s nest. His skin coated in dirt, blood, and other excrements that no one wanted to think about. Sherlock, once proud and somewhat arrogant had been reduced to such a sad and pitiful state; living in his own bodily fluids and filth.  
His mental state was harder to gauge. Sherlock still interacted with his friends and family, but not the real them. He reacted to his figments of them. The agent alluded to what he saw during his boss’s sibling’s incarceration. The man told of Sherlock talking to people he could only see, people named John, Greg, Molly, Mrs Hudson, and others sometimes. Mostly to John, though Greg’s presence seemed to visit frequently too. He would always tell them to hide when he heard his captors coming, reassuring them that Mycroft would be coming for them all soon. Soon they would all be safe and well, and home. Eventually though, the pain and infections started to get the better of the detective, the torment seemed to take a larger toll on him. The agent noticed a heartbreaking change in the captive man. Sherlock became more withdrawn, less prone to converse, though his feverish and delusional mutterings prevailed. He didn’t react as much to the torture, seeming to hide within the confines and safety of his mind, until he would once again be left alone. He would cry out, and beg John to make it stop; plead with Greg to help make it better. His mind regressed into a state that could subconsciously comfort itself. Hands petting his hair, his face, rubbing his arms, wrapping around his body, fingers tracing patterns on the other hand. Lips allowing simple tunes and complex melodies pass through.   
John sighed, rubbing his face to try and scrub away the tiredness and stress. He sat in an observation room with the others, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, and Mycroft, watching doctors trying to prod some sort of reaction from their not quite catatonic friend. They had patched his injuries and cleaned him up, and never once received recognition. He’d react to pain with a grimace or a hiss and go back to chattering with whomever he thought was visiting him at the time. They sedated him to set his left arm and cast it. He had curled up in himself as much as he could, his right hand moving up to pet his own locks, murmuring to Greg in appreciation for the comfort. There wasn’t a dry eye, save for Mycroft, in either room.  
Currently, Sherlock was awake and sitting up, gazing into nothingness. His doctor came out of the room, and spoke briefly to Mycroft before leaving. Mycroft looked like he’d aged quite a bit in the last few hours, but he remained his stoic self even so.  
“Well, what did he say?” Lestrade and Molly glanced up at the pair, while Mrs. Hudson slept on. “Is Sherlock going to be alright?”  
“They’ve done everything they can for him, John. Physically it will be a few months before he’s up and about, moving without pain. He’ll be taking medicines to help fight off infection and restore him to his original health.”  
“Yes, and mentally?” John’s brow rose as he waited with an impatient air. “Did they say whether or not he was starting to come back to?”  
Mycroft turned towards the glass again, his eyes searching his brother’s face, “They say that he reacts to different stimuli, and they feel his ‘regression’ is temporary. The doctors believe the more he interacts with someone and begins to feel safe outside of his mind, the more he should revert back to normal.”  
“Well, what is going to be done with him then?” Lestrade asked, his voice laced with the tiredness his eyes were trying to blink away. “If the doctors can’t do anything else for him, I mean…surely you don’t mean to leave him here…”  
“You said he needs to feel safe, where better to send him than home?” interrupted Molly. “We could all visit him and perhaps bring him back out of his shell. He won’t need the imaginary us if he’s got the real us, right?”  
“I’m a doctor; I could take care of him, Mycroft. You could supply me with the necessary tools and medication.”  
“He does usually respond better to you, Dr. Watson…my presence would just further set him off I believe. He’s always been petty.” Mycroft grimaced before nodding towards his assistant. “My dear, could you make the necessary arrangements for Sherlock to go to 221B Baker Street?” Anthea’s fingers flew across her phone as she left to do her boss’s bidding. Mycroft followed after her, but stopped short at the door, “I will be by to check on him tomorrow, Dr. Watson. Do take care of him.” With that, the British government was off.  
“I suppose I should be off myself,” stated Molly. She sent a side-glance towards the room that held Sherlock, before letting it slide to Mrs. Hudson, slumped in a chair and snoring away. “I could take Mrs. Hudson home, if you’d like John… I mean, if you wanted to stay…not that you have to, I just thou-“  
“Its fine, Molly,” John halted the pathologist’s nervous ramblings, hands rubbing through his hair. “That would be great actually; if you’re sure you won’t mind.”  
“Not at all,” she assured. Molly roused the landlady from her nap and headed home, making sure John promised to call if there was any change, leaving John and Greg to keep watch.  
~SH~ ~SH~ ~SH~  
Sherlock stumbled gracelessly off his bed, hobbling about towards a corner and dropping unceremoniously into a heap on the floor. He ached all over, but the pain wasn’t as intense as before. He examined his arms and legs, taking note of the lack of grime and fresh smell of cleaner, as well as the bandages and his cast.  
“It’s a new game, John,” he grumbled at his friend. “They must be up to something; trying to lull me into thinking I’m safe. Well, they can try as they like, I won’t be fooled!”  
His gaze lifted up to John’s face as he huddled in his corner, searching his eyes and finding nothing but the brotherly love he had come to depend on. He rested his heavy head on his friend’s shoulder, taking in scent and allowing it to fill him, calm him.  
“Perhaps it is a new game, Sherlock, or maybe Mycroft has come and gotten us out of there. You know how he is, he won’t bother to show up for a while yet, if it is him,” John murmured into the genius’s curls.  
“I don’t think he’s coming, John… He would give me some sort of signal, to let me know it was him. I have not received one,” Sherlock said, voice void of emotion, as if he was just stating fact.  
Greg sat cattycorner to the two and brushed a hand through the tatted, brown locks. “Don’t give up yet, kiddo, he’ll come,” the DI assured. “Just sleep. We’ll still be here when you wake.” He continued to sooth the battered mind underneath his hands, even after the form it belonged to slumped slightly from unconsciousness after sighing a “thank you, da- Greg”.  
~SH~ ~SH~ ~SH~  
John and Greg fixated on the delusional detective. They watched with bemusement as he teetered off of the hospital bed and tottered over to a corner of the small, square room. The two exhausted gentlemen observed their friend examine his freshly bandaged and medicated body, hoping against all hopes that it would bring him to reality; he had been rescued, he was safe.  
They were dismayed to hear Sherlock’s gravelly voice come to the wrong conclusion. “It’s a new game, John,” he grumbled to himself. “They must be up to something; trying to lull me into thinking I’m safe. Well, they can try as they like, I won’t be fooled!”  
Sherlock lifted his face somewhat, to observe something at his left side. A small smile graced his lips as his head tilted to the side. The genius detective breathed in deeply, allowing the air to flow back out, slow and precise; he wrapped his casted arm securely around himself, as much was physically possible.  
Sherlock gave a hum as he tightened his grip around his midriff, gentle fingers brushing over emaciated ribs. “I don’t think he’s coming, John… He would give me some sort of signal, to let me know it was him. I have not received one,” Sherlock said, hopeless and resigned.  
John gasped in horror at the conversation Sherlock was holding with the imaginary him, his fist pressed tightly to his mouth, to hold in what, he didn’t know. His heart ached to go into his best friend and hold him, tell him he was here for real and everything would be ok. That as long as John had him, he was safe, but his legs refused to budge, his eyes wouldn’t turn away. He was paralyzed to watch the scene unfold, helpless to right the wrongs.  
Lestrade wasn’t faring much better, blinking rapidly to fight off the tears that were desperate to break free; his hands clenching and unclenching by his sides. The DI wanted nothing more than to march in and grab the young man he’d come to think of as a sort of son and hold him close and never let him go. If he wasn’t sure Mycroft had ended the men who had done this to his little brother, Greg may have marched out and taken care of it himself, and made it much less quick and painless. He’d known the young man for what? Five years? Seven years? He’d been there for the drugs, the withdrawal, the relapses, the achievements and successes, the good, the bad, and the ugly. He’d dare anyone to even suggest he’d leave now.  
Eyes closed, Sherlock angled his head slightly to nuzzle his own hand as it petted his hair. As he drifted off into a fitful rest, a contented sigh passed through chapped lips, “thank you, da- Greg.”  
It was painful to watch Sherlock comforting himself, even if in his mind it was his friends there for him. Maybe that is what made it so painful? Greg felt like someone had grabbed a hold of his heart and was squeezing the life out of it. Sherlock had almost called him dad! More than ever he needed to be there for his boy, a man he had helped save from himself when he was just entering true adulthood.  
The air had been knocked from John, he was sure of it, he needed air, but he couldn’t remember how to breathe! His heart was breaking in two. It was just too much. He had grieved for his friend and begged for him to come back to him, but he didn’t mean like this! He wouldn’t wish this on anyone, least of all Sherlock.   
He couldn’t hold himself back any longer. The blond doctor rushed through the observation room door that entered into the detective’s hospital room and went to his friend’s side. Lestrade was hot on his heels, kneeling on the other side of Sherlock. Together they managed to ease Sherlock up and half carry, half drag the tortured body back to the bed. He whimpered and groaned as he was jostled about. Once placed upon the soft mattress his quiet mutterings became more incessant. “No…no, please, let me back onto my cot. I don’t like this one, it’s too soft. Tell ‘em, John. Tell ‘em it’s going to swallow me up.” Sherlock continued to complain and whimper, tossing and turning about on the soft, white bed, trying to escape its confines and the discomfort it was causing him.  
“Shh, shush now, Sherlock,” John tried to soothe, intertwining their hands and giving it a squeeze, using his other to dance across the man’s gaunt cheek. “Everything is going to be alright; I’ve got you now.”  
Lestrade followed suit with carding fingers through the curly locks, gently kneading the scalp with a comforting pressure. The DI began to hum, a song his own pa would sing to him during his youth, letting the soft noise lull his detective into a comfortable sleep.  
As Sherlock curled into himself, casted arm wrapping back around his torso, the other hand coming up to fist the pillow near his head, face nuzzling into it, John and Lestrade vowed to themselves that they would do everything in their power to undo the damage done. To be there for their broken friend and make sure that he never doubted how much he was loved and cared for. To heck with his “high-functioning sociopath” proclamation, no one that really knows him has ever bought that crap anyhow. Sherlock would be okay. He may never be the same as he was, but his friends…no his family, would make sure he would be just fine.


	2. Night Terrors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This isn't a nightmare that will disappear when he awakes...this is real, very real. Can John handle Sherlock alone? Can Sherlock realize he isn't in the Serbian's clutches, that he is finally safe at home, with his family?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I am thankful that this story was enjoyed. You asked for more, so here it is! I hope you enjoy it.

**Night Terrors**

True to his word, Mycroft had Sherlock transported back to Baker Street the same night. Once there, John had guided Mycroft’s people to lay Sherlock on the couch until a better place could be sorted. John was grateful to the older brother for thinking of tidying up the flat too. He had been so focused on what was transpiring at the hospital and squashing down grief and disbelief that his friend was back, that he hadn’t thought ahead at all.

Presumably, Mrs Hudson was downstairs asleep, understandable, it was two in the morning. Lestrade had offered to stay and help out, but John had waved him off, telling the DI to get some rest and come back tomorrow. They were all knackered; they all needed some rest, because tomorrow brought on a new challenge that would more than likely prove to be harrowing and taxing.

John maneuvered around the flat as if hadn’t been absent for the last two years, his brain quickly supplying where everything would be. He methodically went through the motions of making a cup of tea, the normalcy doing wonders for his nerves. If he didn’t stop to remember the past several hours, it would almost be like the fall had never happened. However, it did happen, and things weren’t normal, not even close, and he was just so exhausted. Slow, silent steps made way to his chair, where he sank heavily into its depths. The steaming cuppa warm and solid in his hands soothed his grief ridden soul, if even for a moment. It didn’t take long for the events of the day, years really, to catch up to the blond doctor, and soon he was drifting off into a world that wasn’t so full of chaos.

~SH~SH~SH~

A familiar scent wafted through his nostrils, from where did he know that smell? It certainly wasn’t one he was used to smelling in this forsaken heap of misery. Where was he? Why is the floor so…cushiony? Was this some sort of new torture? If so, he’d agree it was quite awful. Even worse was that he didn’t know what to expect next. At least with outright brutality he knew what was coming next, he knew how to cope with these idiots’ predictability.

Sherlock’s ears perked at a gentle snore careening through the stillness. He squinted his eyes open to discern where the noise was coming from, but couldn’t make out much in the darkness. It was quiet, but it was near. The sentry must feel his prisoner is too weak to be a threat, too disoriented to escape. Sherlock smirked at that thought, ‘truly morons; can’t even be ‘good’ terrorists!’ The injured detective risked sitting up, taking great pains to suppress groaning. No need to alert them I’m awake, and therefore they should be too. Should he risk trying to find a way out too? If he did escape, he could get everyone to safety, though Mycroft may be a bit miffed he’d left without a word to him…on the other hand, if he didn’t manage it, it may mean worse torture, perhaps death… and not just to him either, it would mean the death of them all. Still, wouldn’t death be better for them than being stuck in this metaphorical hades?

“John? Greg?” Sherlock called out, his voice barely above a whisper. “Come out, please. The guard is asleep.”

John and Greg came around to crouch before their friend. Even in the darkness, he would know those faces anywhere: kind eyes, gentle smiles. Their presence lifted his spirits and reaffirmed that they needed to risk getting out; he couldn’t let them rot away here without hope. He reached out and clasped a hand each and gave a weary smile.

“I think it’s time we get out of here, what do you say?”

A light hand was placed upon his knee, giving a quick squeeze. Greg and John glanced at one another before nodding reluctantly towards the detective. “Are you sure you’ll able to move, mate?” John’s doctor nature always worried for his friend.

“We’ve been given a chance to go for it, John. What choice do I have?” Sherlock trailed off as thoughts of his friends lying broken or dead passed through his brain. He shook his head, sending throbs of pain throughout, from his frontal lobe to the occipital lobe, and all the lobes in between. His wince did not go unnoticed.

“No one is going to think less of you, if we just wait it out, Sunshine. Mycroft may be on his way yet.”

“And what if he isn’t, Greg?” Sherlock whispered, anger and fear ever present. “What if he can’t find us? Are we meant to just wait to die? I don’t know how much longer you all will stay hidden! I can’t bear the thought of… I won’t let you end up like me. You have so much to live for.”

“You do too, mate. Don’t start thinking like that, or our plans of mayhem will go awry before they even begin.” A wink followed by a light punch to the shoulder. Count on John to add humor with his reassurance and sentiment.

Sherlock managed to rise up off his too soft bedstead, though remained unsteady on his feet. His good arm up and stretched out and his friends behind him, the genius detective started his trek to freedom with small, wobbly footsteps.

If his captor’s plan was unhinge and disorient him, it was working. Perhaps this torture was better planned out than what he had initially gave them credit for. He couldn’t make out shapes in the blackness, just darker blobs. If there were any windows in this new room, they must have something blocking out all light. He wasn’t far from where he had started before his foot slammed against something very solid. Sharp knives entered his bare foot, working their way into his ankle. Already quite unbalanced, this unexpected pain sent him spiraling over. He toppled down onto the floor and into something sharp, caused by what he assumed was what he had slammed against before, hitting his already battered shoulder and the side of his skull. That was going to hurt loads, later. His fall had not been quiet in the least, he is fairly sure he heard glass shatter… Had his stupidity given them away?

His friends hovered over him, asking him questions he couldn’t quite make out, his ears were ringing. Their looks of concern starting to make him feel the pain more; all so stupid, clearly a psychological thing, just as a child won’t notice he scraped his knee until the mother starts to coo at him. Tears spring to his eyes, a surge of anger rushes about at his body’s betrayal, at their potential plot of escape being foiled. Anger and fear swell deep within him, and he is helpless to fight against it. He clenches his eyes tight, not to just hold back tears, but in some hopes that if he couldn’t see the bad guys, maybe they wouldn’t see him either. A childish tactic, he knew better, but he couldn’t stop it either. He had to try.

“You alright, Sherlock?” Sherlock cringed at the volume John’s voice carried. Didn’t the man realize that they were still in danger of being discovered? If the racket from his fall hadn’t already alerted the enemy yet, his words would.

He opened his eyes and looked around. They were surrounded! Oh why didn’t he see this for the ruse it was… his worst fears were about to be realized. He turned to where his two friends awaited him, held by guards, they had been caught! There was no chance for them to run and hide while he took the punishment; there would be no way to save them from this horrible existence

He turned towards his captor, greyish-blue oceans meeting dark abysses, and pleaded, begged, “Please, let them go! Please! His voice hoarse and croaky with pure panic, “I take the blame! I fully accept punishment, theirs too!”

“Sherlock, no!” his friends called out, desperately struggling against those that had seized them.

Pressure on both his shoulders brought his beseeching to a halt, a firm grasp that had the poor man slumping in defeat. No leniency would be shown, least of all to him. Perhaps they considered his friends’ death merciful just as much as torture to him. His head bowed low, his form tucked into himself, taut and ready for the blow he knew would be coming.

~SH~SH~SH~

John had always been a light sleeper, which was very helpful during the war, but a pain in the butt when you lived with the discourteous insomniac that was Sherlock Holmes. He had been awoken by mild explosions, crashing objects, music and racket from a violin, being jerked out of bed for cases, and that didn’t include his own nightmares and night terrors that awoke him. So when he suddenly jerked awake, he wasn’t very surprised.

The doctor took a moment to reorient himself, hoping everything that had occurred was just one of his bad dreams. He switched on the lamp beside his chair and waited for his eyes to adjust; his hopes were dashed upon closer inspection of the calamity in the flat. As soon as his eyes landed on the cause of the chaos, his heart dropped down into his stomach. He was up before his brain could register that he would need to proceed with caution; that he should probably call for back up.

Sherlock was on the floor, cowering in fear and what would appear dread, clearly suffering from new injuries and pain from jolting the old ones. His chocolate orbs swept across the room to make sure no one else had joined them to have caused his friend to try and walk about. The lamp lay shattered on the hard wood floor, pieces embedded in porcelain skin and tangled in dark curls. He would need to use tweezers to get those out, and somehow get Sherlock in the shower to clean him up a bit too. For the time being, off the floor and not trembling would be a good start.

“You alright, Sherlock?” John asked with caution, ready bounce back if his friend became violent. Sherlock flinched, so John lowered his voice a decibel, “Sherlock?”

Eyes sprang open wide and he searched the room frantically. When his gaze landed on the doorway to the kitchen the man began to panic, his respiration increased to a point where John was worried he was going to hyperventilate. Just as quick as they had opened, the same eyes turned toward John, desperate.

The man before him trembled like a child with a phobia of a needle about to get a vaccination. “Please, let them go!” Deep baritone voice, pitched high with terror, turning into a guttural cry. “Please! I take the blame! I fully accept punishment, theirs too!”

He’s a doctor! Even if he’s not a psychologist, he’s studied enough of it to where he should know how to handle this situation! But he doesn’t… He just needs Sherlock to calm down, to go back to how he was, to not be this, this, whatever he was.

Carefully, he steps closer to the desperate detective, like one would approach an injured fawn to try and help it. He places his hands on both shoulders, giving a strong squeeze in hopes that it would bring Sherlock back around. If anything it made the situation worse. Whatever Sherlock is expecting, he is no longer trying to fight against it. He’s bowed his head and hunched in on himself, his muscles taut, as if readying himself.

He withdrew one hand to call in reinforcements, he didn’t know what do, just knew he couldn’t deal with it alone. He was too wound up himself to think clearly, all he really knew was that somehow, he would fix this. He just had to make this better. For all of their sakes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know your thoughts. Again, I hope you enjoyed it and I appreciate your reviews.


	3. Hope Dawns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft pays a visit to try his hand at reigning his brother back into reality. John and Greg are left to clean up the mess,literally.
> 
> "Endless silence, it couldn’t have been more than two minutes, but it felt like a lifetime, before a hesitant recognition flashed across battered features. “My?” Confused and doubtful, but recognition! It felt like Christmas, as Sherlock would say. Oh, but why couldn’t it be so simple…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still unbetaed.
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy this chapter. I"m not sure how I feel about it yet.

**Hope Dawns  
**

He blinked, to keep the blood oozing from the laceration on his skull out of his eye.  John took note that he was also favoring his left foot, as the right appendage was sporting a large bruise, and possibly a few broken toes. He remained slumped over in defeat, silent tears streaming in acceptance of the fate that awaited him, for them.  Nothing John said or did seemed to get through to the man. He had done everything short of grabbing his friend and shaking sense back into him. The doctor was sure that Sherlock’s heart had to be racing, as his breath seemed to be coming in short, deep gasps. He refused to think of Sherlock releasing or holding back sobs. His own heart threatened to give out on him every time a whimper would escape those chaffed, pink lips.

He was incredibly grateful for the door opening and the entrance of both Lestrade and Mycroft Holmes. John didn’t expect Greg to be able to get through to the younger man any more than he had been able to, however, John himself, could certainly use the moral support. Mycroft was hopefully going to be the key; Sherlock didn’t believe that his brother was with him in that terrorist camp.

Mycroft didn’t bother to say a word to either men, he went straight to his little brother and knelt before him, gentle hands grasping the delusional man’s wrists firm, but light. Greg on the other hand, went to John’s side, already blinking back treacherous tears and emotions. He remained silent, but gave a reassuring pat and squeeze to the doctor’s shoulder. They waited and watched, anxious and hopeful, that somehow Mycroft could awaken their friend from his nightmare.

“’Lock, can you hear me, brother mine?” His voice tender and placid shocked the other two men. “Sherlock, you have been rescued; you are at 221B Baker Street, with John Watson and Greg Lestrade. Now, you must stop this nonsense and answer me. Are you in there, Sherlock?”

Endless silence, it couldn’t have been more than two minutes, but it felt like a lifetime, before a hesitant recognition flashed across battered features. “My?” Confused and doubtful, but recognition! It felt like Christmas, as Sherlock would say. Oh, but why couldn’t it be so simple…

~SH~SH~SH~

Why were they waiting, did they mean for him suffer more through anticipation? He was known for being heartless, but he didn’t think even he could pull this off. It was downright cruel. They shouted at him, but his racing thoughts tuned out their words; they grabbed him, squeezed him, but he ignored their touch. Nothing they could physically do would ever bother him again. Not so long as they held his friends. They could beat him, burn him, break him, pull out his fingernails, or drive him to the brink of insanity…none of it would matter. Why should he care? He only fought against it for his friends.

“’Lock, can you hear me, brother mine?”

Wait! That voice, those words…surely not. It couldn’t be. Mycroft wasn’t coming; he probably figured him dead and moved on. Even so, his brother hadn’t spoken to him with blatant affection since he was a child proclaiming to be a pirate captain, trying to get his older brother to be his first mate. His captors did a good imitation of that time, good thing Sherlock knew better. While the siblings loved each other, they were not close and certainly weren’t emotional with one another. Though, he would admit, Mycroft did have a point, caring obviously wasn’t an advantage… look where it got him. Look where it got his friends. Still, this existence would have been bearable, if only those he cared about were able to live in safety with hope of a future. They could live without him, even if he could not, ultimately, live without them.

 “Sherlock,” There’s his name in that voice again, “you have been rescued; you are at 221B Baker Street, with John Watson and Greg Lestrade.”  No! They can’t have gotten their names yet…he hadn’t heard his friends being questioned, and he himself certainly hadn’t told his captors anything about them. “Now, you must stop this nonsense and answer me. Are you in there, Sherlock?” Well, that certainly sounded like his older brother… Was it possible that Mycroft had finally come to save them? That he could rescue his friends before they succumbed to the same misfortunes?

“My?” Cautious, suspicious, this could easily be a ploy to lure him out of his mind palace; another ruse to gain his attention and make him watch his loved ones suffer. He shouldn’t have spoken, he was being stupid, the stupid little boy Mycroft always claimed him to be. But he did so long for his brother to be here.

Eyes squinted, head tilted, grey-blue orbs searched frantically for his brothers imposing form. So much haze to fight through, he didn’t understand. Why would they still be surrounded by enemies if his brother was in the room? This scene didn’t make sense. He shook his head, his body displaying his agitation, it didn’t help, it hurt, hurt so much. The pain caused a thicker fog; he sank further into his mind. It didn’t hurt as much there. He couldn’t forget, but he didn’t have to face it either.

 Must think logically, if Mycroft were here, they may still be surrounded, but the debauched group would be on the floor, a bullet hole neatly placed right between the eyebrows of each and every one of the wretched souls. Conclusion one: Mycroft isn’t here; they have somehow manipulated his voice to gain his trust and manipulate him. Conclusion two: Mycroft had been captured also and is being used against his little brother. Scratch that second one, that wouldn’t happen, his big brother would never turn against him. As much as it may cost the man, he would take care and protect Sherlock. Conclusion one it is. Solution: Ignore voice.

~SH~SH~SH~

Mycroft saw the life enter his little brother’s eyes, a war occurring within himself. To trust or not to trust…that was the question. He was unsurprised, yet oddly annoyed when he saw which had won that battle. Almost as quickly as it had come, the light had died out. Tortured eyes glazed back over as Sherlock hid further within his mind palace. He hated to admit, but even the British government was at a loss for this problem.

“Well?” John asked, hopeful, but tactfully avoiding look down at the retreated man before them. “Can you get to him?”

“He recognized you, Mycroft. Surely that’s a good sign,” Greg equally as excited about this prospect, didn’t hesitate to observe his son-figure. A frown formed, the wrinkles more pronounced around the curves of his mouth. “Why did he stop talking? Why did he return back to the state he was in?”

Mycroft grimaced, dreading to tell them of his failure. His gaze lingered on Sherlock, perturbed by seeing his brother’s hand come up and dance across his cheek before entangling it inside his long curls giving them mild tugs. He was going to need a haircut soon.  Well, if anything positive can be found in these circumstances, it’s that Sherlock will be much more complacent for the time being. They could care for him without much worry.

“I regret to inform you, that I lost the battle of trust.”

“Must you always speak in riddles?” John was reaching his rope’s end. He briefly entertained the notion of beating the man over the head, using his umbrella to add insult to injury.

“He doesn’t trust that you’re actually here talking to him,” Greg heaved a sigh, rubbing his hands over his face. He sank into Sherlock’s chair, tired and emotionally exhausted and it wasn’t even four am!

“John, I think it best you tend to his wounds, and get him back to bed. I do not believe he will be giving you any trouble.”

“Yes. Of course.” John made his way up the stairs to his room, grabbing his medical kit from his wardrobe, before making his way back.

Greg and Mycroft had managed to manhandle the detective to the small bathroom, turning the lights to low when Sherlock nearly closed his eyes altogether at the offending brightness. They sat him on the toilet and filled a bowl full of warm water, in preparation of cleaning the head wound. They would worry about a shower tomorrow, when they were all mildly refreshed.

Ignoring the ever growing tightness in his chest, John cleaned the cut and bandaged it, making a mental note to ice the area to reduce the swelling. Sherlock would have quite the shiner in a few hours. There wasn’t much that could be done for his broken toes, other than try and keep Sherlock off his feet and allow them to heal. No doubt they would throb for a few days. The hard part was going to be getting paracetamol in him. Greg went to fetch the pain killers as John finished up. Mycroft remained present, but only observed, staying out of the way.

“Sherlock, its John,” John rubbed small circles with his thumb across the back of the detective’s hand. “If you can hear me, mate, I need you to open your mouth. I am going to give you some a little something to help with your fever and the pain your experiencing.” He paused for a sign of comprehension, but received none, “ Sherlock?”

Said man did not show any coherent signs of acknowledgement that he had been spoken to, let alone that he understood what was about to happen. John sighed, long-suffering, and placed the pill between loose lips, hoping that Sherlock would do the rest. Of course, no such luck; that wasn’t unexpected at all! Deft fingers pulled out the unwanted medicine and dropped it to the floor. Greg tried the next time, tilting water into Sherlocks mouth following the pill, in hopes that reflex would cause Sherlock to swallow. Again, hand came up, pill came out, water not intentionally swallowed, had Sherlock sputtering to expel liquid from his airway. Mycroft rolled his eyes at the troublesome young man, and shoved the DI and doctor out of the way. He took the pill in one hand and pried open his brother’s mouth with the other. He shoved the medicine in and quickly spilled water in to follow and proceeded to force Sherlock’s mouth and nose closed. It didn’t take very long for the paracetamol to be swallowed. Sherlock’s shoulders sagged in defeat.

“You’ve probably just traumatized him worse!” John shouted in anger, completely missing his best friend’s flinch.

“He was being petty, John. Now he can experience some relief.”

“Alright, both of you just shut up and let’s get him to bed.” Greg sighed and rubbed at his tired eyes.

John and Greg hoisted the broken body up and dragged his limp form into his bedroom, easing him onto the soft bed. Once situated properly, covers were tucked around Sherlock, before they brought down John’s mattress and set it up in the corner of the detective’s room.  They decided on taking shifts to keep an eye on the man, making sure another adventure was halted.

“Well, it seems you gentlemen have things under control, I’ll leave you to it then.”

“You’re leaving?” John asked, incredulous. “You’ve just watched your brother have a mini meltdown, and you’re just going to leave after further traumatizing him?”

“Technically, you saw my brother have a meltdown, doctor; I saw him put his guard back up. Besides, I am leaving him in the most capable hands I know, for handling him. Do take care, Dr. Watson. I will try and find a way to remedy the situation, without  further “breaking” him.” A mock bow and he was out the door, leaving John and Greg to flounder about, not knowing what to do any more now than when the events had first transpired.

~SH~

Despite his better judgment, John took first watch, sitting in his chair that he’d dragged from the sitting room. Greg’s roaring snores echoed around the room. He was exhausted, but John kept a faithful eye over the self-proclaimed sociopath. If he hadn’t known better, he would say he was keeping watch over a corpse. Sherlock’s skin was pale against the white sheets, and his body stayed straight and stock still, not even a twitch. The doctor momentarily wondered if the man was even asleep, or if he was just thinking, waiting for his keepers to both drift off to dreamland. It _was_ a struggle stay awake.

It had been a couple hours since putting the younger man to bed, light was beginning to filter in through the heavy curtains Sherlock had in his room to block out the majority of the sun’s rays. The room was lit enough to make out forms and furniture. Sounds wafted through thin walls, the busyness of London always a comforting noise; not too loud, but the background noise spread a warmth throughout John, it was home.  Lulled with warmth and safety, and the sense of home, droopy eyes fell shut, and a small smile spreading across a weary face, and John was swept away into a blissful state of unawareness.

~SH~SH~SH~

A second snore joined the raucous one before it, this one soft and smooth. The tense figure, relaxed into the uncomfortable softness of his presumably medical bed. The man must be closer to death than he thought if they were trying to fix him back up, withholding his punishment. Maybe that’s why. Perhaps his next beating would be the last one if they didn’t allow his body time to heal first. He didn’t feel like he was in danger of death though, no matter how much he wished it would claim him.

Well, if they wanted him comfortable, they shouldn’t have placed him on this insufferable mattress! With both minders out cold, he was free to roam his new cell. As long as he wasn’t escaping, surely they wouldn’t care. His captors did leave two incompetent idiots to keep an eye on him. They couldn’t prove he was searching for his friends anyhow. John had long since told him that Molly and Mrs. Hudson had been set free, when they were found useless to the cause. Where they had been released and if they had made it back alive, he didn’t know and didn’t enjoy contemplating it. He’d missed them, but kept hope that they were alive and well and moving on. He had had John and Greg still with him then too, which both eased and worried him at the same time. How could he have been so foolish to risk their lives, of all lives to risk!

Sherlock sat up and observed his surroundings; it looked like any standard terrorist, medical bay. White walls, a bed in the center of the room, equipment about. The only oddities being that he wasn’t restrained and there was a cot with a sleeping occupant, sentry number 1, and a chair, where sentry number 2 slept; there was also a second door, leading to who knows where. Maybe his friends were in there. Well, while the warden is away, the Sherlock will play.

Very aware of his injured foot, Sherlock carefully climbed off the bed, being as quiet as he could be. He limped over to the second door, grimacing from the pain mere walking caused. He stood there fidgeting, playing with his sleeve cuff, teasing his lips between teeth. Should he check what’s in the next room? Would he regret it?

Ears perked up at a gunshot behind him. Eyes widened, heart sped up, respiration increased, catching at every inhale. Muscles tightened as adrenaline coursed through his veins. Fight or Flight? Another bullet sprang from its chamber; decision made. Sherlock jumped, flung the door open and flew inside the darkened room. He couldn’t see where he was running and soon enough his shins hit something solid. He was hurdled into something hard and ice cold, where he quickly huddled low in the corner of his new safe haven. While his sanctuary sent chills to his bones, he found he rather preferred it to the other places he had been kept. He no longer heard the barking of weapons, perhaps he was safe here. He could find John and Greg later; he would be of no use to them dead after all, for now he could rest. He was too sore to move for the time being anyhow. ‘But….what if those bullets weren’t meant for me?’

~SH~SH~SH~

Greg awoke slowly, unsure as to what had interrupted his peaceful slumber. He felt refreshed and ready to begin a new day. Looking about, that was a good thing, because it was clearly after lunch. ‘I wonder why John didn’t wake me earlier.’  His inquiry was answered upon hearing a soft snore filling the room. The DI stretched and pursed his lips as bone crackled. He was getting too old to be sleeping on the floor.

A pitiful whine, barely heard over London’s city life. Was there a puppy in the house? No, there’s no way any animal would be allowed in this environment; just his mind playing tricks on him in his middle age. The detective glanced towards John and gave a chuckle at the sight before. The doctor was sprawled out in the chair, legs over one side and head on the other, his left arm hung limply over the front. It looked like a rather painful position to sleep in. No doubt the good man would have a kink in his neck and a cramp in his shoulder. He should probably wake him up and get the day started. They would need to get Sherlock bathed and fed at the very least, before too long. Speaking of the genius, Lestrade’s eyes wandered over to the empty bed. Empty?! “Oh, crap!”

John jerked awake. “Huh, what is it Greg?” the man slurred still half asleep.

Another whine, insistent whimpers. ‘Please no… Please, please let a dog be loose in the flat.’ Greg rushed out of the room searching for the source of the cries, praying all along the way that it wasn’t what he knew it was. He searched the sitting room, the kitchen, and then entered the bathroom. No point in searching upstairs yet, he’d doubt he’d been able to hear the poor wretch if he were that far away.

The sobs grew louder as he approached the lavatory; a disheveled John came out to meet him, now very alert to the problem.  Greg entered the room followed by John, turning the light on just enough to make out the figure huddled at the back end of the bathtub. So, this was how they were going to start their day… Pushing back their thoughts and emotions, they couldn’t break down every time, nothing would ever be accomplished; the two went to work. Greg sent John to make tea and lunch while he set out to calm Sherlock down. He set on the edge of the porcelain washing basin, and bent over to rest a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. Doleful eyes shot up, to meet this newcomer; he flinched away, but didn’t have any more to escape to. The icy glare, meant to frighten him was diminished by the pain and misery lurking underneath. For a moment, Greg thought he saw a flash of recognition, but it passed so fast that he was sure it must have been a trick of the light.

“Sherlock, are you ok, son?” What a stupid question, he could clearly see he wasn’t fine at all.

A furtive nod responded, a mistrustful gaze watching his every move. Lestrade sighed, pulled some tissue off the roller and began to wipe away the snot and salt water stuck to the young man’s face, ignored. He was allowed to touch him without being cringed away from, but it didn’t look like Sherlock was still with him. He looked far off in his own little world, he probably was.

John came through and handed him a cuppa, which he accepted, grateful. Worried eyes passed over the huddled form and then returned to Lestrade in askance. Greg shook his head.

“I’ve got eggs on the stove, and some toast…”

“Sounds good, how are we going to get it into him?”

“I’m not completely sure, but maybe we should clean him up first.”

The DI nodded and went to find some fresh, comfortable clothes. No way were they going to put him in one of his suits. He heard John talking to Sherlock, explaining his every action, Lestrade assumed the doctor was trying to wrangle some of the filthy garments off of the man. He was grateful he wasn’t in that position. John being a doctor had seen more of his fair share of the human body, he didn’t care anymore, and living with Sherlock, and his lack of modesty, there was no doubt John had already been scarred for life. He would rather allow the detective to have his modesty and maintain his dignity as best he could; which is why he knocked to alert John he had found a suitable pair of pajamas and underclothes.

“Come in Greg, I kept his boxers on him.”

The DI still blushed with embarrassment that soon turned in a blush of rage at seeing Sherlock’s mutilated skin. He slammed the clothes down on the sink before he thought not to, immediately thankful that the soft material didn’t make much sound. Sherlock’s modesty had not improved in his time away; he still appeared apathetic to his body being on display. Greg hoisted up the old trousers and shirt, to throw away and threw the pants in the laundry. Those were salvageable.

The water started up and a shriek filled the flat, followed by what sounded like a struggle. “Sherlock? Sherlock! Calm down, mate. No one here is going to hurt you.”

Lestrade barged in as Sherlock’s loud yells quietened down to a repetitive murmuring of “no”. Sherlock was curled in the corner of the entrance, hands tangled in curls and John was crouched in front of him with his hands outstretched. He was surprised he hadn’t hit John with the door. “What happened?”

“I don’t know, I think the water set him off.” John rubbed a hand through his short hair and rolled his eyes up in exasperation. “Gosh Greg, what did they do to him?”

Ignoring the comment, Lestrade knelt down in front of his friend. “Sherlock, whatever they did to you, it won’t be done here. You need get that muck off of you, kiddo.” Sherlock looked up at that, finally lucid eyes meeting the DI’s chocolate brown. They widened in disbelief, “No, no, you’re not here, this isn’t real, they killed you. All my fault. No. No, not real.”

“No, Sherlock, no one’s touched me. I’m here, I’m alive, I’m real.” Lestrade assured the man while laughing in relief.

“They had you surrounded, you and John! They took you away from me…I heard gunshots!”

“Sherlock, I don’t know what you think you saw or heard, but it wasn’t real…” John tried to help, but was ignored as if he wasn’t there at all.

Lestrade nodded, “John’s right. We were never kidnapped to begin with, Sherlock. It was your mind making it up, as some sort of coping mechanism.”

“John’s alive?” Sherlock tested, cautious, but hopeful.

“Yes, Sherlock, he’s right here.” Lestrade pointed to the figure beside him who looked eager and relieved.

The detective’s brow furrowed and his eyes looked in John’s direction in confusion. “Huh?” Eyes turned back to Greg and then to John, only to settle back on the DI.

John’s shoulders sagged in disappointment. “I’ll go make a call to Mycroft. See if he’ll let you clean him up a bit, yeah?” The doctor left, frustrated and hurt, that his best friend would see Lestrade before him.

The DI frowned, but nodded. “Come on Sherlock, let’s get you freshened up, okay?” He gripped Sherlock under the arms and hefted him up, allowing the detective to lean in on him while they maneuvered back to the tub. At the sight of the water filled basin, Sherlock tensed and halted, causing Lestrade to stumble a bit. “Sherlock?” He looked at genius and realized with dread that his time of lucidity was quickly coming to an end. “Sherlock, it’s just water, it isn’t going to hurt you. I won’t allow it. Can you hear me, Sherlock?

Distrustful glare aimed at him, “I don’t believe you. You just want to drown me…or freeze me to death. I won’t let you!” He tried to pull away, but the grip on him was firm and he was too weak to break free.

“Sherlock, the water is warm, and I won’t put your head under…we’ll use a cup to wash your hair.” Heartbroken…the sorry souls had tried to kill his boy, just to save him and repeat the process. “See, look, the water isn’t even filled to half way.”

Sherlock’s demeanor never changed, but he glanced at the blue liquid. Mouth shut tight and body firmly planted, he shook his head. Lestrade heaved a heavy sigh and stepped into the water, the liquid sloshing up the sides of the tub and his legs. He beckoned over to the stubborn detective, “Come on, lad, see, waters nice and warm. I would let you take a shower, Sherlock, but you can’t get your cast wet.” He tugged at the young man’s arm, pulling him off balance enough for him to have to readjust, closer to the detective inspector. Eyes clouded over again, body posture guarded, all clarity gone. Sherlock fought against Greg’s hold on him.

He was finally maneuvered into the bathtub, Greg soaked in the process, sat down on the side with his feet on the inside. He’d lost Sherlock to his mind palace or nightmares again, he wasn’t sure which, but he became unresponsive. A thumb brushing his casted hand, was the only movement Sherlock provided. The DI managed to wash the grime off the skin, taking special care of the marred bits, especially the fresher ones. He then moved on to the detective’s hair, liberally applying both the shampoo and conditioner, covering the man’s eyes with his hand before rinsing the substances off. The water was an off brown when they were done. He quickly drained the basin and used a fluffy, blue towel to dry the genius off. He’d wait for John to return to redress him; he’d need help with that. It wouldn’t be easy to balance a near catatonic man that was easily one or two heads taller than him.

It may not have lasted, but for a few short moments, Sherlock seen and spoke with clarity. It was a blessing. It would be worth all the heartache and struggle in the world, to see his boy back to himself. It may take a while, but eventually, everything would be ok again. For now, he’d take the brief moments he could get.


	4. Touch and Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock becomes a touch more daring. 
> 
> Molly gives Sherlock his much needed haircut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I hope you guys enjoy this chapter!
> 
> Still unbetaed.
> 
> Any and all constructive criticism and thoughts welcome!

**Touch and Go**

It had been two days since the bathing incident, and they had managed to get him washed up twice more, without incident. Still couldn’t get food into the man, and John was near the point of putting a feeding tube into the stubborn detective.  John was currently seated on the left far side of the couch, Sherlock on the right, with a plate of chocolate, chocolate cream filled biscuits in between. Sherlock was watching crap telly, and John was stealing glances at Sherlock whenever he would mumble deductions from the observations he made.  One line of reasoning in particular had John’s heart swelling with déjà vu, “Of course he’s the boy father. Look at the turn up on his jeans!” They could be watching a rerun; John hadn’t paid close enough attention the first time to know. At least Sherlock was interacting with something, rather than fleeing into a corner and whining that annoying sound like he’d done so frequent these past few days.

Lestrade had gone to work, out of sick leave, but had promised to return with some Dim Sum and eggrolls from their favorite Chinese restaurant. Molly would be dropping by later in the day as well, offering her expertise of cutting hair. It was agreed that a familiar, friendly face, would be better to try before having Mycroft send over a trusted employee of his to do it. Mrs. Hudson had yet to present herself while Sherlock was awake, unable to bear seeing her loveable tenant so, unSherlock. However, she made sure to keep them stocked with cups of tea, tins of biscuits, and soft bland foods premade. She had even gone to the shops for them.

John glanced down between them and noticed a cookie gone, sneaking a peek at the suddenly quiet detective to see very tiny nibbles be taken from the ‘stolen treat’, microscopic crumbs sticking to his mouth. John did a victory dance in his head. As a doctor, John should be concerned of the choice of food to that Sherlock finally chose to divulge in, but his friend could certainly do with any meat the sweet sustenance would give him. The gaunt figure, similar to one you would see on the ‘Help feed Africa commercials’, worried the doctor just as much as the wounds, and mental trauma. Malnutrition and starvation were killers in their own right.

“Would you do it for a Scooby snack?” a female voice asked enticingly.

John jerked back to attention, that didn’t sound like one of the ridiculous shows they were just watching. Sure enough, a children’s show was playing now. Oddly dressed young adults, a talking great dane, and a psychedelic van that held the familiar logo of ‘Mystery Machine’ was now showing on the small television. Bemused and transfixed, John barely caught Sherlock speaking, probably something deprecating about the cartoon.

“Don’t worry, John,” Sherlock barely whispered. “The monsters aren’t real…not these ones.”

Eyebrows shot up into his hairline. Had Sherlock just spoken to _him_? Did Sherlock realize he was sitting beside his best friend, watching mindless shows and killing brain cells with him? Excitement filled his soul; maybe things were better than he thought. Cautious to let his hopes rise too much, he took Sherlock’s announcement in stride. “No, Sherlock, the monsters aren’t real.” He looked the detective over, pleased to see the detective munching on a second biscuit, albeit just as slow, engrossed in the mystery that was being played. The remote rested on a bony thigh, he was surprised that Sherlock would pinch it off the cushion between them, much more that he would flip the channel to a cartoon. The man had barely said a word since John had got him out from under the table this morning and went through their routine of shower, breakfast, tv; only helping John by walking.  The rest of everything else, John had maneuvered and held the lanky form in place.

After another episode of Scooby Doo and two more biscuits had found a home in Sherlock’s tummy, John ambled to the kitchen to warm up lunch: baked chicken, mash potatoes, steamed carrots, and a lemon tart for dessert.  Even without seasonings to spice it up, John’s stomach rumbled in anticipation. He hoped it would have Sherlock salivating too.

The doctor returned to the living room with two plates in hand, Sherlock remained as he’d left him: curled position plastered to the end of the sofa, completely fixated on the nerdy girl revealing the masked figure. The lanky detective clapped in delight with an exclamation of, “I knew it!”

John smiled at the man-child, “Sit up, Sherlock, and I’ll set your plate on your lap.” He wasn’t entirely sure how this would go over, as they hadn’t managed to get a meal in him yet, but it was worth a try and any mess he would just have to clean up afterwards. Suspicious eyes searched him; John allowed it without a word. Slowly, the gangly body situated upright, legs indian style. John set the dish of food onto his lap, placed a fork into the man's hand, and watched as it fell from the limp appendage, tongs first onto an exposed knee. He was thankful he had thought to cut the chicken up, so Sherlock wouldn’t need a knife.  The utensil bounced off the bony knob, but the damage was done. Legs bucked with a cry of pain. John narrowly missed catching the dish as it was flung to the floor, food scattered and smeared everywhere. Ceramic shattered on impact of the hard wood floor, a repetitive whining echoing the loud break. John looked up, shocked at the utter chaos that was caused by such a domestic activity as lunch.

Sherlock’s mashed potato soiled hands shielded his ears, cooling food coating the previously, clean locks. Aggravated with himself, for not foreseeing this as a possible outcome, John jumped up and got a damp cloth, rubbing food from his friend’s face. He pried hands from ears to wipe them clean too. He hoisted the too thin frame off the couch, the annoying sound from Sherlock still filling the silence, and grating on his nerves. He gently toppled the man into his chair, so he could clean up the sofa and surrounding area. He glanced at the clock, taking note that they still had a couple of hours before Molly would be popping in, and a few more after that before Greg got off of work.

Once the sitting room was scoured, and Sherlock was quiet again, John took his own plate back to the kitchen to fix it up for Sherlock. Lesson learned, he steered a forlorn Sherlock to the kitchen table, being sure to push the chair in as much was comfortable, to avoid another painful and messy incident.  He set the fork on the plate and took Sherlock’s limp hand and forced it to hold the utensil. The scene was much like a parent training a young child to use a utensil, rather than allowing them to continue to use their hands to eat with. He guided Sherlock’s hand to scoop up food with the fork, and lifted it up to a waiting mouth. John chuckled to himself, the thought of the ‘airplane’ technique passing through. He wouldn’t demean the proud detective any more than he would take the risk of a wrathful strop after everything goes back to the way it should be. Jaw slightly open, took the food in, naturally closing around the fork to hold the sustenance as the utensil slid out, and chewing.

One bite is all it took. Sherlock’s stomach rumbled like a growling bear, obviously neglected and ravenous for more. The man hunched over the table, towering over his plate, an arm wrapping around for protection. He snatched his hand from John’s light grip, sending fork flying across the room, and digging fingers full force into the meal before him. The sight before John was a feral child shoving as much as he could, as fast as he could, before his caregiver changed his mind and stole it back. When John got too close for Sherlock’s comfort, teeth flashed, menacing eyes glinted in the low light, and a deep, savage growl was emitted.

“Sherlock! Slow down, mate. I’m not going to take it away from you,” the doctor rasped in shock, wisely staying a safe distance back, should he lose a finger or two. “You’re going to make yourself sick…”

The wild animal before him was barely breathing, hardly chewing, if he didn’t choke first, he was surely going to vomit. “SHERLOCK!” John’s captain demeanor commanded the attention he was seeking. He gave a nod when Sherlock stopped propelling food into his eager mouth and sat back, doe-eyed with fright.

Before John could try to explain why eating so fast would be ‘a bit not good’, Sherlock sprang out of his chair and fled the kitchen and away from John. The doctor stood dumbfounded for a moment before he ordered his feet to move, to seek out Sherlock. The doctor followed Sherlock’s infamous noise, the half whine-half sob. John sighed, “Way to go, Watson, you idiot.”

There was putrid smelling puddle of puke in the corner of Sherlock’s room. The distressed man was presently holed up under his bed. As John’s footsteps drew closer to Sherlock’s hiding place, his friend’s sobbing-whine turned into hushed apologies. Knees creaked as the army doctor knelt down to eye level with the frightening genius.

~SH~SH~SH~

            ‘They allowed him food. Must eat it before they take it back; don’t know when I’ll get more. They’re talking to me. No!’ He can’t, he won’t get enough down. They’re already coming for his meal. Faster, faster; must keep it down. “SHERLOCK!” No, no, no. He had taken too long. They’re going to punish him.

‘Run! Must hide, quickly, but where?’ Sherlock fled from the kitchen, blindly running into the first open door. He cowered in the open corner, waiting, anxious, and scared…and sick? Sherlock clutched at his rebelling stomach, trembling with the effort to not sick up, as much as he was shaking with pure terror. His efforts went in vain; his body seized as he saw and tasted his latest lunch. That’s really not good. Now he’ll be getting a whopping for this too, and now he no longer has enough sustenance in his body to get him through the long period of between meals. Had they poisoned him?

He searched for a better safe haven, frantic eyes landing on the space underneath the medical bed. Footsteps neared, his heartbeat hammered fast and hard against his ribcage, panic overwhelmed his mind. He sees them, sees their mouth’s moving, but he can’t understand them. His brain tells him that he’d be better off coming out and accepting what is coming, but he doesn’t want to hurt anymore. So, his instincts win and he burrows further into the safety of the darkness. John’s going to be so mad that he’s made a scene. He wants dad. Dad will tell John he hadn’t meant to be bad. ‘But what if John tells Greg that I’ve been bad and deserve to be disciplined…’ If it made things better, if it made them happy, he’d take his reprimands. ‘Why can’t I be good? What’s wrong with me? Please, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’

~SH~SH~SH~

            John stretched a hand under the bed where Sherlock lay, trying to reach out and help him but the man shrank further underneath. “Sherlock, it’s okay. Everything is going to be just fine,” He tried to reassure, voice placid and soothing. He can fix this. Sherlock’s eyes are glazed over, they register his presence, but John isn’t for sure what the man’s actually seeing. “Sherlock, can you tell me what’s wrong? Sherlock, its John, can you hear me?”

John scoots a bit closer towards Sherlock, catching fragments of mutterings, “John’s…so mad.”

“No. No, Sherlock, I’m not mad. You didn’t do anything wrong. You’ve just worried me a bit, is all.” The doctor is going to have permanent creases in his forehead if Sherlock has anything to do with it. How had he’d manage to screw up a simple task as lunch?

“Dad. I want, dad.”

“Lestrade? Do you want me to call Greg, Sherlock?” This hurts him much more than it should.

“…if… tells Greg …’ve… bad …deserve… disciplined,” Sherlock rambled incoherently. “Why …n’t I…good?  … wrong …me? Please, I’m s’rry. I’m s’rry. I’m s’rry.”

“Oh, Sherlock…” tears spring to John’s eyes, blurring his view of the distraught detective. His heart aches for what his friend is going through, what they’ve all been through, and what they will have to struggle through in the future. “You are good, Sherlock. You’re very good. There isn’t a thing wrong with you. You don’t have anything to apologize for.” John pulled out from underneath the bed, still lying on the floor across from Sherlock, and grabbed his phone. “Don’t worry now; I’m going to get Greg over here. We’ll get you sorted, one way or another.”

John dialed the DI’s phone and asked him to come over to 221B immediately, to not panic, he was just needed. He’d call Mycroft and get Lestrade’s job sorted if he had to. Lestrade was at the flat, less than ten minutes later. Now both men were sprawled on the floor, trying to coax the panicked genius out and into the open.

“Sherlock, come on out now, I’m here.” Lestrade called out to the young man. The DI wrinkled his nose when he caught a whiff of the vomit in the corner of the room. “Sherlock,” he sighed. “Please come out. I’m getting too old to be laying on the floor, now.”

“Maybe I should leave? He might be keener on coming out, if I’m not here…” John suggested, an air of gloom surrounding him. He started to get up, when a hand met his shoulder. He looked over to meet the Inspector’s gaze.

“John, he isn’t afraid of you. He isn’t hiding from you.”

A touch, cold and smooth, tentative and nervous, brushes over the top of his hand, then retreats to settle over fingers. Tilted head, dark curls covering one eye, the other staring, longing, for help, for acceptance. The older man turned his hand over and grasped the long fingers. His other hand reached over and grasped John’s, pulling at it until it reached Sherlock’s shoulder. They stayed like for seven minutes, calming, reassuring. Lestrade gave a gently tug at Sherlock’s fingers, silently asking him leave his safe place. Sherlock gave a whine, but started to shimmer out from under the metal confines of the bed. John made sure Sherlock’s weight never steadied on his injured arm. Slowly, but surely, the lanky man was out in the open and looking like an abashed child, puppy dog eyes and protruding lip completing the pitiful ensemble.

“Very good to see you, mate.” John chuckled, taking in the filthy appearance before him. a layer of dust and cobwebs were added to the list of messes covering Sherlock. He sent a side glance towards Lestrade, who was also laughing at the sight before them. “Reckon we should give him another bath, before Molly comes?”

“Nah, might as well save it for tonight. He’ll need to wash the cut hair off anyhow; you know even with a trash bag over his shoulders, he’ll end up with it all over him.”

Sherlock was finding the floor very interesting, refusing to look at either of his two friends. They sat him on the floor in front of the television, John found another mystery cartoon for him to watch, while he cleaned up the sick in the bedroom and Lestrade set up a barber shop in the kitchen. Molly would be arriving soon.

Lestrade came back to the living room, easing down to sit beside Sherlock. He nudged his shoulder with his own, grimacing when he came in contact with a sharp scapula bone rather than a full, healthy shoulder. “Now, Sunshine, Molly is going to be dropping in to cut your hair. Do you understand?”

A nod; he mouthed, “Molly.”

John joined them on the floor. “You going to be alright with that, Sherlock?”

Another nod; he reiterated a mouthing of Molly, eyes never leaving the telly.

They watched Scooby Doo until Molly gave a careful rap at the door. John went to let her in, leaving Lestrade to explain again what exactly would be happening. His only response was a double nod and Sherlock’s raspy whisper of “Molly.”

“Hello, John,” greeted Molly, nervous and chipper as always. “How is our favorite detective today?”

“Hi, Molly,” welcomed John, taking her coat to hang up. “Hard to say really, but that’s nothing new.”

“Does he know I’m coming, and why?”

“Yes, we’ve told him multiple times. He’ll acknowledge it, as if he understands, but can’t say that means much.”

“Oh. Well, I guess we’ll just have to see what happens.”

Molly and John went through to the kitchen, where Lestrade already had Sherlock sitting in the chair set up for him. A black trash bag was wrapped around his thin frame to prevent hair going down his clothes, his exposed hand had a white-knuckled grip on the arm of his seat. Lestrade sat cattycorner to the young man, trying to gain his attention, to calm and relax. Molly came around in front of Sherlock and knelt to find his gaze.

“Sherlock?” Molly’s tone was soft and tentative, a small pale hand lightly brushed over the larger, just as pale one.

“Molly?” Sherlock’s eyes shown with a bemused blunted joy; he was happy to see his pathologist, but clearly hadn’t believed she would be coming. The taut frame fidgeted a moment before wrapping his good arm around her thin neck, hesitant, cautious.

The coroner though surprised didn’t hesitate to wrap her arms around his broken body. Trying to blink back her tears, she squeezed him softly. “It’s good to see you too, Sherlock,” she whispered, overjoyed. He released her shortly after he had initiated the embrace. Molly stood up and dabbed a tissue at her running makeup. She grabbed the scissors and went behind the chair. “Sherlock, are you ready for a haircut? Won’t it be nice to see without curly locks in the way?”

Sherlock gave a curt nod, brows knitted. He looked unsure as to what he was agreeing with, but dead set on fulfilling whatever they intended for him. John prayed that his friend didn’t see this as some sort of punishment for the earlier episode.

John went to the other corner of Sherlock and squatted down, ready should something happen. He had prepared for if this backfired. He hated to admit, but he expected it would. Everything else had gone wrong for them so far. Molly lifted the scissors and took a hold of the first bunch, so long John figured might as well cut the excess before shaping and evening it out. Sherlock tensed, but said nothing. Cold metal grazed warm skin, and John could see the transformation. Sherlock’s eyes glazed over and he clenched his eyes shut. A screaming fit was about to occur, John was just thankful it wasn’t a full blown tantrum like a child on the floor, fists and feet pounding the ground beneath them.

Lestrade observed the change as well; he was up out of his seat right as the first yell rang out. Molly drew back immediately, startled by the sudden reaction. “Molly, don’t worry, try again.” He took Sherlock’s wrists in his hands and gripped firmly, but not painful, trying to ground the man to reality. Molly went back and restarted. Scissors encompasses long strands, cold metal grazing warm skin. Sherlock screamed out, muscles tightened further, causing his back to hunch over slightly.

John grabbed a glass from the cupboard, filling it with fresh, ice water. He pulled a medicine bottle from his pocket, spilling out a small, white pill. Lestrade and Molly eye the doctor, then the tablet. “It’s valium,” John explained. “It will keep him calm for a short time, so we can get this done, without terrifying him more. Mycroft supplied it for him.” No one looked happy about it, but it appeared their only and best option. The army doctor handed the items over to Lestrade, and nodded for him to give them to the panicking man.

“Sherlock, here, I have something I want you to take,” said Lestrade.

“Will it…Will it make you happy?”

“Yes. Yes, it will make me happy.” Lestrade’s voice was thick with hampered emotions. A choked sob escaped his lips when Sherlock opened his mouth, trusting and willing. Lestrade placed the medicine in and helped him hold the glass to wash it down. They waited, five, ten, fifteen minutes for the valium to take effect. It didn’t really look much different than what Sherlock usually appeared nowadays, but his breathing was even and his muscles relaxed.

~SH~SH~SH~

He hadn’t gotten in trouble! Well, at least he hadn’t been punished yet. Instead, they were watching his favorite episode of the mystery gang! The bad guys were Captain Redbeard and his dastardly crew. He could tell it was Mr. Magnus way before the big reveal, he could tell by his height, and the way he moved his mouth when he spoke. He told Greg as such too. He had smiled and ruffled his dark locks… he liked it when Greg did that. He didn’t understand why they kept interrupting the show with talk of Molly. Molly wasn’t here. She had left a long time ago. Maybe they were worried he would forget her. So he nodded and repeated her name. He remembered her, he wouldn’t forget. He had a special room allocated to her after all.

There was a knock on the door as Velma was pulling off the criminal’s masks, proving he was in fact right. His ears intermittently picked up on voices, one male and one female. He focused harder on his cartoon. He didn’t want to know why someone else was here.

After the episode Lestrade guided him to the kitchen and put trash bags around his neck. He was confused, frightened, but if this is what they wanted, he’d take it. Surely it would be better than a beating. Greg was in his peripheral vision, his lips were moving, but Sherlock was too focused on preparing for all possible disciplinary actions that could involve him sitting in a chair, with a bag around his torso.

A familiar face is in front of him. He knows this face! His heart leapt into his throat. Why was she here? What is going on? Is she in danger? Is she helping them? He couldn’t bear to have her hurt him too.

 “Sherlock?” Molly’s soft, careful voice brings him from his thoughts. Her warm  hand is placed upon his cold one.

“Molly?” He was confused, but he was pleased to see his pathologist. She’d seen him, even when no one else could. Were Greg and John trying to tell him that she was coming earlier? But why was she here? He felt lighter with her presence, maybe…could he?

 Sherlock cautiously, afraid of rejection, wrapped an arm around the slight woman. She tensed, but returned his hug, giving him a gentle squeeze.  “It’s good to see you too, Sherlock,” she whispered. He let her go, sure she was uncomfortable touching him for so long. She stood back up and dabbed at her eyes. Had he hurt her? She was talking to him again. He didn’t hear her, but he nodded nonetheless. He would do whatever she wanted.

John came back into view. Something tugged at his hair. What was happening? He couldn’t see behind him, but he was beginning to worry. An icy dulled edge brushed against the back of his neck. No! They were punishing him after all. They tried to lull him into a false sense of security with the telly, just to try and behead him later! He couldn’t do this. He tried. He wanted them to be happy, but he couldn’t just sit there and allow this. Please, anything but this. Eyes shut tight, body ready for impact, he let out a terrified screech.

He remained in his seat, too frightened to move, but unable to stop the horrified cries. They were afraid he would escape; they didn’t realize that he couldn’t move, they were restraining him. The blunted knife drew back from his skin. A brief moment, too brief, and Sherlock could feel the icy metal return, he yelled out again, muscled taut, body leaning forward, away from the weapon.

Water was running, people talking. Why were his friends doing this to him? Did they hate him for what he’d done? He didn’t want them involved. He had never meant for this to happen. He was sorry, so very sorry.

Lestrade grabbed his chin, forcing the smaller man to look at him. “Sherlock, here, I have something I want you to take.”

“Will it…Will it make you happy?” he asked, sad, miserable, resigned.

“Yes. Yes, it will make me happy,” The DI confirmed.

Sherlock loosened his jaw and willed it open. Greg placed a tiny object in. A drug, Sherlock deduced. Water followed suit and soon the pill was swallowed. ‘Are they poisoning me again?’ Time passed, slowly, and soon Sherlock didn’t feel or think much of anything at all. He didn’t like this feeling. He retreated to his mind palace, going down endless halls, until he reached the door he wanted. The nameplate read “Redbeard”.  Maybe he and Redbeard could play, or watch some telly together. It would all be over soon. Soon, he hoped.

~SH~SH~SH~

            The haircut didn’t take long, once Sherlock was calm and pliant. Molly didn’t stick around after her work was complete; obviously upset about what had occurred, but brushing it off with an excuse of needing to be at work early the next morning. They manhandled their friend to the couch. Scooby Doo wasn’t on, but a cartoon movie called “Peter Pan” was playing. John sat on the couch with Sherlock, Lestrade in the detective’s chair to wait out the rest of the medicine’s effects.

            Sherlock’s body fell to the side, head landing on John’s shoulder. His newly shortened curls brushing against the side of the doctor’s neck. They sat in silence at the little fairy was captured by the pirate captain, John’s rough hand, coming up to absentmindedly run fingers through the dark, curly locks. He hoped he was offering some form of comfort to the spaced-out genius. Perhaps the medication would help block the memory of the recent trauma.

Sherlock’s hand tangled itself in John’s jumper, as his eyes focused in on the television. The two other men grinned at the drugged detective upon his admittance of, “I wanted to be a pirate when I grew up, more than anything in the world. Redbeard was going to be my first mate.” He gave a sigh of contentment, settling in deeper, closer to his best friend’s side. If he was aware of his words, or actions, it was unclear, but it warmed the doctor’s and inspector’s hearts either way. Tomorrow was a new day, hopefully a better day; though no one would say no, to dinner going over better tonight... For now, sitting in front of the telly, watching some mindless children’s movie, all three, more or less at ease, everything was just fine.


	5. The Mind's Tempest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "A terrifying scream echoed the rolling thunder; it stopped Greg’s heart momentarily. He scrambled out of the shower, not bothering to turn the knobs off. The DI haphazardly dried off and tugged the first set of clothing he found over his damp form. He raced into the sitting room..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Important! Hello guys! I hope you enjoy chapter 5. I am strongly considering ending the story with the next chapter. I have run out of ideas and no one else has come forth with anything specific they would like to see occur. I hate to end it, as I am enjoying writing it, however, it would be unfair to you guys to leave it sitting for an indefinite amount of time, waiting to see what happens next. It's not set in stone. Perhaps some more ideas will sprout or readers will spring some thoughts for me to work with. In the mean time, I hope you enjoy "The Mind's Tempest".
> 
> Still unbetaed.

**The Mind’s Tempest**

A storm had been brewing for days. Clouds hid the sun away; the wind wreaked havoc in the city, sweeping and strewing items about, humidity had thickened the atmosphere as an impenetrable fog rolled through the streets. Rumbles of thunder, quiet and vague, mixed with the everyday hustle and bustle of London. The paper boy hurriedly filled the newspaper stands, with news that read, “Sherlock Holmes, is Alive: The vindicated detective faked own death!”

A week had passed, seven days of routine, worry, and a hair of progress. Sherlock remained pliant, though not necessarily compliant. He still refused to do anything without being made, except for bathe. Sherlock would wash himself up, but never without prompting. The only thing he could be predicted to do without hesitation was to run and hide, at the drop of a coin. Literally, he had walked straight into a desk, jarred the wood where a penny laid on the edge. When it promptly fell to the floor, Sherlock’s legs scrambled for escape. It was the most ridiculous thing that had set the detective off yet and it had taken a good half hour to coax him from the closet. A mess of change followed, when to prevent a similar occurrence they had tossed and dropped coins all over the sitting room, encouraging Sherlock to join in on the fun. Their point was made in the end; it was ok if coins hit the floor, just pick them up and place them back where they had been. No punishment necessary for an accident, especially something silly as money landing on the ground. John was fairly certain the last part was the only part Sherlock took in.

After the infamous lunch a week ago, Sherlock would watch whoever was with him at the table. They still kept a hand over his, to make sure the utensil would not be abandoned for the more convenient way of eating. He ate slower, but was not pleased with the forced implementation of cutlery. He never complained of hunger, but he rarely turned down food when it was set before him. John and Greg were beginning to feel like progress was being made in this area, till they found left overs or snacks scattered throughout the flat, some beginning to mold. It turned out Sherlock wasn’t eating out of hunger, or even just to please them. He was eating out of necessity, still unsure of when the next meal would be his last. He had taken to stealing food whenever he was not being monitored directly, hiding his pilfered goods where he could easily find and make use of them, should the need arise. They could deal with that though. If that is what it took for Sherlock to feel safe, then cleaning up moldy specimens were the least they could do.

Their biggest challenge with the lanky detective, aside from his tantrums and fearful disappearances, were his sleeping habits. Understandably so, Sherlock suffered from nightmares, and refused to sleep until his body dropped with exhaustion. The young genius seemed to recognize when it was about to occur too, because he would always disappear. He wasn’t running out of fear, just making sure he was safe during one of his most vulnerable states. His favorite sleeping places consisted of closed in areas, such as, under the bed, in closets, in the bathtub, under anything really. Lestrade watched him closely at night to anticipate when they needed to get the detective to bed. He didn’t like the mattress, but he would rest on it for a while if Greg stayed with him. When the DI fell asleep, Sherlock would get up and stumble about to somewhere he liked to sleep. It was not an odd occurrence for John to pull his friend out from under the kitchen table or living room desk in the mornings before work.

Molly had dropped by a couple more times, bringing biscuits or puzzle games with her. Sherlock appeared to enjoy her visits, when he was lucid enough to do so. He would sit on the floor by her legs, not close enough to touch, but to feel the warmth. He would tinker with whatever treat she’d brought with her, parroting her name, until something would inevitably set him off. They couldn’t quite figure out all of the triggers, however, they were all getting pretty good at coaxing the detective back out and calming the situation down.

John was at work, leaving Greg to tend to Sherlock that day. Dark clouds blanketed the sky, the wind raged outside, beating against walls and surrounding the small flat. Molly had brought a rubics cube her last stopover, the young genius set on the floor, in front of Greg, who sat on the couch, turning it over in his hands, like a compulsion. Lestrade could hear the wheels turning like clockwork as Sherlock worked out the pattern of the colored squares. The stubborn man had refused to interact with his father figure since this morning, after the DI had smacked his hand for putting his spoon in the toilet. It had been a pitiful sight. Sherlock had been cranky from the sleep deprivation catching up to him, turning his outburst into a full blown tantrum. As soon as Lestrade’s hand came into contact with his, the young man’s lip came out, quivering, tears flooding those expressive eyes and he’d been silent, but mindful of his behavior ever since.

With Sherlock occupied, cartoon on the telly, puzzle cube in hand, and a plate of biscuits at his side, the detective inspector decided it would be a good time to slip into the loo for a shower. He grabbed his overnight bag, which had turned into a mini closet by this point, and announced his intentions. Sherlock spared the man a glance, before his attention was brought back to the telly from an exclamation of, “Jenkies!”

“I’ll be back in a few minutes, kiddo. I’ll be in the bathroom, if you need me, just give a shout.” Lestrade sighed when he was met with silence. He shut the door behind him, and adjusted the taps, breathing deeply as steam filled the small space. If he closed his eyes, and allowed his mind to wander, it was almost like he was in his own flat, getting ready for work. As hot water beat and rolled down his back, tension eased from his shoulders and he felt refreshed, relaxed, ready to face the world once more. As enjoyable as it would be to stand there for hours, the DI knew he needed to hurry, there was no telling what the detective was getting himself into. ‘Just a couple more minutes,’ he thought. ‘How much trouble could a half out of his mind man-child get into, really?’

~SH~ ~SH~ ~SH~

A resounding boom echoed off the walls, the explosion of noise, shook the tiny flat on its foundation. The tv screen flickered a couple of times before it cut off altogether. A flash of lightening penetrated the freshly dimmed room, sending shivers down Sherlock’s spine. The loud rumbles of noise, the rapidly, repetitive bursts of light, all in quick succession of one another, it was another session of sensory overload! He thought that at least these were over. The thunder mixed with the beating of the rain, which mixed with angry shouts and blares of horns and screams of agony. The lightening continuously showed its rage, and the electricity rebelled with flickers of on and off, a disco ball of colors flashed beneath closed lids. A mixture of salt and blood filled his nostrils, coated his tongue. His face was hot and cold at the same time. Too much, it’s too much to absorb. Nothing makes sense. Heart races, can’t breathe, he can’t think. His whole body shakes, quakes with the vibrations of the flat. Arms wrap around him, painful, but comforting. Everything hurts. His brain is trying to kill itself. Can’t hide. Must run, can’t escape. Somebody, please, please make it end!

Words, a string of words, sentences, were being hurled at him with high speed. Can’t make out their sounds, can’t make out their meaning. Tone, the way they are being spoken…its high-pitched, loud, commanding…panicked? That didn’t make sense either. He must have got it wrong, thoughts are too jumbled, he just picked from them before they could fly away from him.

Pressure on his shoulders, presses down firmly, grounding him; the pressure shifts, jostling him, it frightens him more. His friends are with him, but they are no longer on his side. They have made their resentment clear, in many ways. The two-facedness about it all, agitated him. They took advantage of his love, his need for them. He wouldn’t take it anymore. He may deserve it, but even he had survival instincts, whether he wanted them or not.

He throws his head forward, coming into contact with something firm, and warm. His tormenter is jolted backwards, away from him. He ordered his legs to move. It didn’t matter where, just so long as it wasn’t here. His feet led him through a door, down a stairway, they took a turn and through another door. Another voice, softer, older, female, approaches him slowly. He searched his surroundings with quick, precise eyes. It’s dark in here too. Difficult to make much out, but he must find something to fight with.

There’s no use, he can’t see clearly enough to find a precise object. He may be weakened, but he can still fight, if he must. The fairer sex, especially one with age, should be significantly easier to take down than the male assailant he had head-butted earlier. He knew many ways to incapacitate, harm, even kill a human, but he didn’t want to do more than use her to help him escape. If she worked here, then she knew the way out, and while there was no way for him to charm her, he could sure as heck scare her. The cover of darkness could be used to his advantage; the woman needn’t know his enfeebled state, only that he meant business.

Once her footfalls came close enough, Sherlock’s hands shot out to cease his victim, his grip hard and unrelenting against her struggles. The woman cried out in fear, and fought against his hold. With energy he wasn’t aware he had, Sherlock twisted the late-middle-aged woman’s frail arm behind her back and pushed her up against the wall. He leaned in close, ignoring her pleas, to whisper in her ear, “Tell me how to get out of here, and no harm shall come to you.” He was angry, but it wasn’t her fault, he could neither confirm nor deny, that she had anything to do with his presence here, or if she, herself was even here of her own free will. He eased up on his grip, trying to be as gentle as he could, but maintaining his authority in the situation. He wouldn’t hurt her, but he wasn’t letting her go without the information he wanted either.

Hastened, heavy steps made their way down the stairs. His tormenter was calling out for him, hunting him down, if Sherlock didn’t get out now, he would most certainly be doomed. The woman continued to sob, continued to be useless and annoying. He was becoming desperate. A knock on the door, the lady in his arms called out for help. He mentally berated himself for his stupidity. He should have moved his victim further away, threatened her into submission, into silence. The entrance slammed open and Sherlock brought his prey in front of him, arm still twisted behind her back, and being pulled at mercilessly. He wasn’t going back without a fight.

His hostage trembled against him, as he dragged her backwards with him, his haunted eyes searched frantically for an exit. He backed his way through what appeared to be a galley of sorts, and that is where he found his saving grace, another door! His name was being shouted, he ignored it, it would be pointless to respond to someone he had no intention of listening to. He chucked the terrorized woman at his oncoming aggressor, sending them both sprawling to the floor. He threw himself at the door, and lunged out before anyone could reach him, slamming it closed behind him. He looked back and forth, observing his new environment. It was definitely outside. The wind was howling, the icy rain pelted his skin, and he felt the familiar panic swell up in him when he noticed that there was nowhere to go. He was surrounded by tall gates. The noise, the lights, the sensations overwhelmed him. He hid behind the rubbish bins, huddling and cowering. A calming rocking motion…it helps, he likes this. ‘Please don’t let it stop.’ Gentle tugs to his locks, pulling softly at the roots. His brain slows. Still can’t think, but its better. Hot streams of tears make way down his sharp cheeks. There’s no point in fighting them, he is defeated. He hasn’t any fight left in him. He tried, he failed. End of story.

~SH~ ~SH~ ~SH~

A terrifying scream echoed the rolling thunder; it stopped Greg’s heart momentarily. He scrambled out of the shower, not bothering to turn the knobs off.  The DI haphazardly dried off and tugged the first set of clothing he found over his damp form. He raced into the sitting room, where Sherlock’s lanky formed was hunched over, smooth hands clutched tightly over his ears. The young detective rocked back and forth, screaming and sobbing. Blood spilled over open lips, as Sherlock forgot, or forewent swallowing. He must have bitten his tongue at some point. Lestrade hurried to the hyperventilating man, trembling, moving arms to embrace his own torso, and grabbed a hold of heaving shoulders.

“Sherlock!” Lestrade hollered above the chaos of 221B. “Sherlock, I need you to listen to me. It’s just a storm! Chemical reactions if you will. Come, on Sherlock! Everything is fine, you’re safe with me; I’ve got you.” The DI became anxious when it seemed his voice couldn’t penetrate his charge’s nightmare.

He adjusted his grip on Sherlock’s shoulders to give a few sharp shakes, causing the younger to flinch. He tried calling out to him again, when the air was suddenly assaulted out of him. The inspector was thrown backwards and landing in a heap on the floor, his lungs struggled to regain air, while his mind reeled at being attacked. Before he could recover, Sherlock was up and out the door of 221B.

~SH~SH~

The electricity had cut off as Mrs. Hudson was preparing tea. She had lain down on the sofa when a shuffling on the stairs and in the hall could be heard. Assuming it was the nice, detective inspector or that John had come home early due to the weather, the kindly, old lady continued to sink into the cushions, ready for nap. She snapped to alertness, rising up, when her door opened and shut. Her vision wasn’t like it had once been, and with the curtains pulled to, it was near impossible to see who had intruded into her home. The only person, who sometimes forgot to knock, was Sherlock, and he wouldn’t be coming down to visit her…

“Hello?” she called out in to the blackness, walking towards the quick and heavy breaths. She grabbed her can of pepper spray from its home beside the couch, and held it close as she neared the silent figure. “Is anyone there? John? Greg? Is that one of you, boys?”

All of a sudden, she was grabbed, rough and firm. She fights to free herself from the oppressive hands, but the assailant does not loosen his grip. She cries out, scared, in hopes that one her boys would hear and come help her. Unexpectedly, her accoster turns her about, pressing her hard against the sitting room wall, her arm brought back behind her twisted. Pain overwhelms her senses and her cries turn into loud sobs. Her face lands on the corner of a large picture frame. It hurts, and she is very aware of the damage it will have done. She begs for release, tells him to take whatever he wants, to just, please, let her go.

The aggressor leans in close, warm breath hitting her neck, sending chills down her spine. “Tell me how to get out of here and no harm shall come to you.” That voice. It couldn’t be. Her Sherlock would never hurt her! She refused to believe it, but the evidence did not lie. Her boy, her battered, broken boy, was currently holding her hostage, threatening her to show him the way out.

His unyielding grasp, loosened slightly, she hoped he was coming to his senses. The detective man, Lestrade, was crying out for Sherlock to come out. That the young man was okay and everything would make sense again, soon enough. Mrs. Hudson wept even harder. Another knock at her door, the detective was calling out to her, asking if she was okay, crying out for Sherlock.

“Help! Greg, he’s in here! He’s not right! Help me, Greg!” she cried out. Her door crashed open, revealing a harried Lestrade. Sherlock tightened his grip on her arm again, and the landlady was sure it was going to rip out of the socket.

Sherlock dragged her in reverse, as she shook within his hold. She found herself in the kitchen; the delusional man behind her searched the tiny room, for an escape. There wasn’t one really, at least not the one he was looking for. She wouldn’t be telling him that though. “Sherlock,” she tried, gently, between sniffles. Lestrade had followed them, still trying to get a response from Sherlock.

She was roughly shoved into the DI’s arms, causing them both to fall to the floor. She was grateful to the nice inspector for easing her landing. Sherlock sprang through the kitchen door, slamming it behind him, no doubt finding out that he was in the back garden. Only exit was a locked gate. The key was hanging near the window above the sink. She worried about him, even as she cradled her poor arm to herself. Whoever had him before he came home, had done a number on the poor soul. He was unhealthy as is, and if stayed out in the storm too long, he was liable to catch his death.

She watched as Greg followed Sherlock out into the back garden, and moved to observe from the kitchen window. Sherlock was pressed up against her rubbish bins. They were only a year or so old; Sherlock had replaced the last ones, because he’d tossed an American agent on them, crushing the silver cans. The rain mixed with the young man’s tears, the wind knotting his impossibly, messy curls. He recoiled from every rumble of thunder and brought his hands to entangle in dark tufts, yanking at them. He swayed back in forth, eyes clenched shut. Lestrade squatted down before the boy, and rested his head in his hands.

Mrs. Hudson backed away from the scene, heading towards the phone. John would just have to come home. He could fix her arm right up and tend to Sherlock while Lestrade calmed down. She’d start a fire going in the meantime, and find her tin of special biscuits. Maybe an herbal soother would help her arm as much as it helped with the pain in her hip.

~SH~SH~

John was out the door of the hospital and hailing a cab before he had even finished his call with Mrs. Hudson. The moment she said his name, he could hear the tears in her voice. Something had happened, something very ‘not good’.  As she explained the events of the evening, he couldn’t figure out how he should be feeling: angry with his flatmate, for hurting their landlady, or enraged with the people who had brought his flatmate to this point. He settled on a little of the first, and leaned heavily on the latter.

It wasn’t that he was upset with Sherlock for having an episode and being frightened enough to run or even bold enough to fight for it. However, Sherlock had yet to become too unruly; even with his mild aggressiveness, John couldn’t see his friend hurting any female, much less the motherly Mrs. Hudson. A woman he had nearly killed a man for laying a hand to her. A woman he had ensured the death penalty of her abusive, murderous husband for. It would seem the game had changed in its dynamics completely, without bothering to tell them the new rules.

The doctor stewed for half the trip, and prepared for the inevitable power struggle the other half of the ride. He had plenty of time to do both with the traffic and inclement weather causing the drive to be much longer than normal. He was calm upon his arrival to Baker Street, a stark contrast to the raging storm about, both physically and figuratively.

He entered the Mrs. Hudson’s flat, to find her puttering about, setting things in order, stroking a fire. A tin of biscuits and pastries were displayed on the coffee table, blankets were at the ready near the sofa, and the kindly lady had her left arm hugged tightly to her. No sign of a hopefully contrite detective or an exasperated detective inspector.

John greeted his landlady with a smile that came across as more of a grimace. Medical bag in hand, he set about examining her injured limb. Nothing time, ice, and immobilization wouldn’t heal. He put her arm in a sling, and gave her a cold compress while she assured him that she was fine, that she had survived much worse before Sherlock had even come around.

“They are still in the back garden, out in that weather, John,” She answered his unspoken question, clearly concerned with their health, rather than her own. “Gregory can’t get him to come in. I’m not sure he’s come out of his state yet, either.”

John strode out with purpose, to where his two friends were currently located in a battle of wills. The DI was clearly exasperated as he repeatedly tried to bring a dazed Sherlock to, unable to break through the haze of terror and anger. The detective was not penitent for the damage he had inflicted, instead seemed to still be stuck in whatever nightmare his mind had constructed, clearly being exacerbated by the unwelcome stimulation around him.

“Sherlock,” John tried, squatting down to eye level. “Sherlock, can you hear me? Do you know who is talking to you?” When met with the expected silence, John picked Sherlock up, bridal style, and carried him indoors, Lestrade trailing behind him. Sherlock fought John the moment he was touched, a strangled, indignant noise escaping blue lips. John allowed legs and fists to lash out, to meet his form with painful blows, without protest. Once inside, still with Sherlock in his firm hold, he fell onto Mrs. Hudson’s sofa to resolutely wait out the latest tantrum.

Sherlock’s sopping clothes finished soaking John’s own garments as he held tight to flailing man. Lestrade went to change and grab extra outfits for the wet doctor and detective. Mrs. Hudson busied herself, trying to ignore Sherlock’s hateful ire. Crimson dripped from John’s nose from where Sherlock’s wild fist had nailed the center of his face. Sherlock kicked and punched, screamed and spat, as he thrashed against John’s unwavering form. It was a solid eighteen minutes before the young genius tuckered himself out, chin falling to his chest, fresh, hoarse wails of defeat sounding from his tortured throat. His shivering renewed with vigor as the adrenaline left his system.

After Sherlock became submissive again, John helped get him changed into dry pajamas, and then went to change himself. Mrs. Hudson pulled out an ice pack from the defrosting freezer for his now swollen nose. They all sat, gathered in the sitting room, near the roaring fire. Sherlock pointedly ignored the other three occupants around him, glaring into the burning embers, his furious demeanor covering his vulnerability.

The tension that filled the small living room could have been sliced with a knife. John, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson made small talk, to break the silence, to avoid the elephant in the room. No one really knew how to deal, how to make sense, of what had occurred today.

“Do you know how long the power will be out, John?” Greg asked, damp hair sticking out in every direction.

“No. Wasn’t even aware it was out, until I arrived,” John responded, eyes remaining on the sulking detective close to the fire.

“Oh, well, I’m sure they’ll have it turned back on before you know it,” Mrs. Hudson said, always the optimistic. “Sherlock, dear, would you like a biscuit? Or maybe a lemon tart?”

Sherlock made no motion to respond, continuing to stare off into space. “Has he eaten today, Greg?” inquired John, knowing full well how difficult it was to get the detective to eat on his bad days.

“He threw his spoon into the loo this morning, he wouldn’t eat anything I gave him after that. If he’s eaten any of his snacks, I’m not sure,” Lestrade sighed, rubbing his eyes.

John pursed his lips, eyes narrowed, “Then we might as well assume that he hasn’t.” The doctor rose from his seat and took the plate of treats from the table, walking over to Sherlock. He kneeled before the man, laying a hand on a bony knee and gave it a gentle squeeze. He held the plate up, “Come on Sherlock, have a snack. You know you can’t resist Mrs. Hudson’s lemon tarts…,” enticed John, waving the heavenly sweets underneath the genius’s nose.

~SH~ ~SH~ ~SH~

Baked goods were being held under his nose, sweet scents wafted into his nostrils. He gave a sniff and turned away. He wasn’t interested in anything they had to offer him anymore. There was always some sort of strings attached.

“You know you can’t resist Mrs. Hudson’s lemon tarts.” That’s true, Mrs. Hudson’s lemon tarts, are his favorite. Wait! Mrs. Hudson? She had been released! Hadn’t she… Had she been recaptured? Was she working for the terrorists, like the rest of them?

Meekly, Sherlock turned to face John, “Mrs. Hudson?” He took in John’s rapidly bruising face, with both satisfaction and remorse. He pushed back the negative emotion and smirked for a moment, before remembering Mrs. Hudson. “What have you done with Mrs. Hudson?” he inquired, hostile.

John looked back at the aged woman who he had held against her will, the woman tearfully shook her head at the doctor. The soldier turned back towards him and puffed out his cheeks, blowing out the held breath. “Nothing, Sherlock, she’s fine. She sent you some treats as a get well present. She said to tell you that she misses you and loves you. She hopes that you will be feeling better soon,” he lifts the plate again, “and that you’ll eat.”

Reluctantly, Sherlock took a lemon tart, suspicious of its hidden contents. The contrasting tastes of sweet and sour, are the best combination in Sherlock’s opinion, and too soon, his delightful snack is gone. He frowns and looks down at the plate. He sneaks a glance at his three companions, to ensure he is not being watched, and snags a couple more of the delectable treats. He scarfed them down, before anyone could notice and *** them back. With a full tummy, Sherlock becomes sleepy, and he briefly wonders if there was a sedative in his food. He sets off to find a nesting place for the evening, heading down the hall and up the stairs back into 221B. He nestled under the medical bed they keep trying to get him to stay in, swaddling himself in pinched sheets and blankets. He’d try to get away again, tomorrow. For now, the enemy was on high alert and he was too tired to deal with them.

~SH~ ~SH~ ~SH~

            The three coherent adults pretended to be concentrating on conversation with one another, while they watched Sherlock quickly eat one tart and then sneak and gulp down two more. Eating was a step in the right direction. The dazed expression Sherlock had turned into a haze of sleepiness. He still sat apart from them, but the tension slowly eased from his shoulders, as the nightmare he’d been stuck in was either coming to an end or calming down.

Lestrade recognized the look Sherlock had once he had eaten his fill of the lemon tarts. One would think that after consuming high sugar foods, a person would be hyper, or at least energized, but not Sherlock Holmes. As he stated often times, eating slows his mind down. Personally, the DI thought that that was because he didn’t keep regular or healthy eating habits. Regardless, Sherlock was about to go search for a tight area to bed for the night, and Greg needed to know where that was. It would seem that after today’s display of craziness, it would be extremely unwise to leave Sherlock unsupervised for any amount of time. The detective inspector bade goodnight to John and Mrs. Hudson and followed the uncoordinated, lanky detective to bed.

The day had been a complete failure; they had had several before it and would have plenty more before everything was back to how it should be. All they had to do was take one day at a time, and count every success, no matter how small it may seem, as a victory. The change would be gradual, painstakingly slow, but there was no doubt in anyone’s mind, that it would happen. Sherlock Holmes, and his dysfunctional family, would make it back to normal someday, or as normal as they could tolerate when Sherlock was involved.

 


	6. Searching for Sense

**Searching for Sense**

Sherlock had indeed tried to escape, every day, for the past two months and four days, never in any pattern. The plans became more elaborate as time went. His last effort had ended badly. He had gone to the bathroom, under the pretense of taking a shower as instructed. He had turned the taps on high, and closed the curtain loudly. Sherlock then proceeded to enter the adjoining room that he slept in, and pulled out a tangle of sheets from his resting nest. He unveiled the glass covered exit and lifted the window open, spilling out his makeshift rope. He shimmied down the knotted bedclothes until socked feet touched concrete.

He took a moment to fully absorb his surroundings. Sherlock did a double take, a triple take. London. His brow knitted together, thoroughly confused. There was no mistaking the hustle and bustle, the chaotic beauty that was his London. There was the address plate that read 221 Baker Street. Speedy’s hooked onto the apartment. Yes, he knew his home.

The sun shone brightly, illuminating the city, wherever its rays landed, and warming Sherlock from the outside in. The gentle breeze swept the comforting smells and familiar odors to surround the detective. Sherlock hugged himself tightly, overpowering happiness surging through him. The embrace of home lifted his spirits like nothing else in the world ever could. But…home was more than the place; home was John, Lestrade, Mrs.Hudson, and Molly. Goodness help him, even Mycroft was home. His friends had turned on him though, hadn’t they?

Uncaring about his present wardrobe of wrinkled slacks and button up shirt, covered with a blue dressing gown, and shoeless feet, he raised his good arm in the air to hail a cab. Many taxis bypassed him, but it didn’t take long before one braved picking him up, despite the disheveled appearance. The lack of a wallet never crossed his mind.

“Where to, mate?” the cabbie asked, staring at him in the rearview mirror.

Sherlock glanced at the clock. “Diogenes Club,” he answered, scanning the confines of the car. Details sped across his mind, and the deduction flew out of his mouth before he could stop it. “Does your wife know that you’re cheating on her?” He continued, not waiting on the driver to respond, “Obviously not, you’ve been keeping it from her, because she is ill and the raised blood pressure and increased heart rate would undoubtedly cause a heart attack and kill her. Despite your infidelity, you still love your spouse, so you take special care to hide the signs. Might I recommend you wash out the perfume scent on your collar and wipe off the lipstick residue on your cheek before you visit her in the hospital? I don’t approve of adultery, but you’ve been getting away with it so far, and no doubt you will continue on with this dishonesty, might as well do it right and not start being sloppy.”

The cab driver looked flabbergasted before turning an angry glare to the detective. The ride continued in an uncomfortable silence, allowing Sherlock to carry on with his thoughts uninterrupted. ‘How long have I been in London? Have I really been in my own flat, all this time? Why did they bother to bring me home with them, if they were just going to continue the torture, the hatred?’ Mycroft could clear all this mess up, if his brother hadn’t turned on him too. He had to be aware of what had been occurring. ‘Maybe he thinks I deserve it for being caught in the first place.’

The car pulled up to the posh, gentlemen’s club, and Sherlock jumped out, telling the chap to wait on him. “This shouldn’t take long,” Sherlock supplied. He bounded up the walkway, slipping by the butler and into the home away from home for his brother. Eyes never wandered over the rooms he passed through, he knew exactly where to find his target. Sure enough, Mycroft Holmes, sat, newspaper held high, in the corner of a side room, by the lit fireplace.

His padded feet didn’t make a sound as he made way to his big brother, but as expected, Mycroft still lowered the paper and looked up at his approach. If Mycroft was surprise by his little brother’s arrival, it didn’t show. He eyed the detective with a knowing smirk. “To what do I owe this visit, brother dear?” He stood and motioned for Sherlock to follow him, where they relocated to an office made for the purpose of such visits. He gestured for Sherlock to sit, as he took his own seat, but the younger man remained on his feet. He hovered near the door, before cautiously coming to stand at the edge of the desk, closet to Mycroft, fidgeting.

Mycroft sighed with a roll of his eyes, and pushed up off his chair. He opened his arms and waited for Sherlock to come close before wrapping the young genius into his brotherly embrace. He sighed again and patted his brother’s back, as if comforting his brother was an irritating inconvenience, it didn’t seem to affect Sherlock one way or another. “Now, now, Sherlock, what’s all this about?”

“I’m sorry,” came Sherlock, voice deep and quiet. He stepped back and stared down at his feet.

“Whatever for?” asked Mycroft,  lost as to why his brother, who did not apologize to anyone, would be contrite at all, much less to him.

“I’m sorry, okay? You can take me from them now,” he shouted back, angry at his brother for playing with him. His older sibling continued to look confused, and it infuriated him further. ‘Why does the fat prat insist on rubbing it in, like rubbing salt in an open wound.’ He said he was sorry, and he meant it, the punishment was supposed to end now. Apparently he was meant to suffer a bit more, by drawing the apology out.

“Sherlock, I really don’t know what you’re going on about. What are you apologizing for?”

Sherlock looked up at him, disbelief written across his pale features, “For getting captured!” The unspoken “idiot” was heard loud and clear. “I’ve learned my lesson, you can call them off…”

“Call who off?” Mycroft asked, incredulous.

“John, Lestrade, and Molly! Mrs.Hudson too, if she’s in on this. Call them off!”

“Are you requesting new caregivers, Sherlock?” His brow furrowed.

Sherlock squinted, adrenaline pumped through his veins at the audacity of his brother. “Caregivers? They’ve drugged me, tricked me, …tortured me! Pray tell, brother mine, how is that taking ‘care’ of me?” The mere thoughts of his friends playing those roles, hurt him, stressed him. He reached up to tug at his messy curls.

“Sherlock, I believe you are gravely mistaken,” His brother told him. “Your friends care about you, love you. Not a one of them would purposely ever harm a hair on your head.”

“I said I was sorry! What more do you want from me?” Sherlock grew more agitated, paced in front of the man who held a “minor position in the British government”. He won’t accept the apology. He is in on this. ‘What do I do now?’ His old motto of “Alone protects me” started playing through his thoughts, over and over, like a jingle stuck in an ordinary person’s mind.

Hands grabbed hold of his shoulders, strong and unrelenting. He jerked back, tried to wrestle from the grip, but the hands remained firm, keeping him in place. “Sherlock, Locke, come back to me. Look at me,” Mycroft gently brought his face towards him. “Yes, there we go.”

Eyes fixed on his brother’s, waiting. He’d hear his brother out; then he’d go back, back to life before John, before Lestrade, heck, even before Mrs. Hudson. It wouldn’t be ideal living. It most definitely wouldn’t be a happy existence, but he’d survive. His friends would be safe, happier, certainly better off without him around. He could live without them if it meant their safety and happiness. First he’d have to withdraw pounds from his trust fund.

Mycroft shook him back to attention. “Little brother, no one here has done a thing, but look after you; provided for your needs like they would a child, since your return to Baker Street.” Sherlock shook his head, and struggled to break free, but Mycroft strengthened his grip. ”No, listen to me, now. Your mind is deceiving you, brother mine.”

Sherlock wanted to slap the smirk off right off Mycroft’s ugly mug, but withheld from losing his temper. Instead, he intensified his efforts to break free. He was ready to leave now.

“Sherlock, you were treated inhumanely, you’re suffering still, and your mind does not know how to cope with the horrors it’s been submitted to. It’s tricking you into believing that your friends are your enemy. It doesn’t know how to let go, so it remains where it was.”

“No! You’re lying…” Sherlock spat, halfheartedly.

Mycroft sighed, “Come on Sherlock, I’ll take you home. I need to have a word with your minders.”

Sherlock resisted the guiding hand on his lower back at first, not interested in returning to his latest imprisonment, but he was in Mycroft’s territory at the moment, and once his brother had his mind set on something, that’s exactly what would end up occurring. He hobbled alongside his brother, anxious of what would happen once he was back in his friends’ clutches. ‘Since when did I start dreading to be around John and Lestrade?’ No one could be trusted anymore. After Mycroft left, security would be high again; it would take ages for him to get away once more.

The cab was still waiting on the detective when the two siblings exited out of the club, a satisfied smirk pasted on the driver’s mouth. ‘Obviously pleased that the meter had run so much, apparently the bill would come to a substantial amount.’ He reached into his trousers for the cab fare, only to be filled with dread when his hand touched nothing more than cloth material.

~SH~ ~ SH~ ~SH~

            Mycroft watched Sherlock’s face crumble, knowing full well what the problem was. He sneered at the cab driver, but paid the crooked man regardless, not wanting to think about what would have been planned for his brother, had he not been here to fix the mistake. He led the slight figure to one of his own cars, and helped him get seated and buckled, before doing the same. “To 221 Baker Street,” he told his chauffeur.

            He kept an eye on Sherlock with his peripheral vision, knowing that if his brother was aware he was being watched, it would only start a petty argument. It wouldn’t appear that the man was going to be getting better any time soon, and with his recent outbursts and escapades, it was becoming increasingly clear, that his brother needed more care than what was being given.

He coaxed the young man out of the black car, and up the stairs of his flat, where Mrs. Hudson and John Watson were in a frenzy; searching for their wayward charge, no doubt. Mycroft cleared his throat, gaining their attention instantly. Sherlock fidgeted beside him, guilty, nervous.

Mrs. Hudson wanted to come to him, hug her tenant and fuss over him, scold him for scaring them all. However, after her recent encounter with the man, she was hesitant to approach. Instead she bustled into the kitchen, and started a pot of tea.

John had no such reservations. He walked over to Sherlock and took hold of him, medical eyes searching every inch of the skeletal form. Upon finding no new injuries, he wrapped his arms around his friend and began his lecture. “Have you any idea how worried we all were? I get a call from Greg, in the middle of an examination, to be told that my best friend had completed another vanishing act! We’ve been looking for you all morning, Sherlock! Greg is out there scouring the whole of London, along with part of Scotland Yard, to find you! What were you thinking?”

John was beyond angry, he couldn’t think straight. He woke up this morning, to another routine day: getting Sherlock out from under the desk, breakfast, shower, work, only to be called before lunch to be told his best friend was gone, again! Terror had overwhelmed him and twisted his gut all the way home. They turned the flat upside down looking for the detective, searching for any evidence that would suggest he had been coerced, kidnapped. To find sheets leading out of a window, to know they had been fooled, it was maddening. He was thankful that Sherlock hadn’t gotten hurt, that Mycroft was kind enough to bring him home, but it didn’t subside the irritation. Apparently, neither he, nor Lestrade would be able to work for a while. He’ll have to talk to Mycroft about funds after everything was calmed down. In the meantime, “I’m going to give a call to Greg, let him know he can call off the search dogs, and come home.”

Mycroft nudged his little brother from the doorway and into his chair; he took the other in front of the young man. He watched his brother fold into himself, mold into the seat. Silent tears streamed down the pale features, miserable, helpless. The politician pursed his lips, mouth set in a grim line. His mind set, he was going to help Sherlock get better, whether or not anyone liked it. He allowed time for his brother’s friends to fix this, and they failed. It was his turn, for his methods.

~SH~ ~SH~ ~SH~

Mycroft had brought him back. His friends were obviously angry with him and he resented feeling like an admonished child. What right did they have to control him? What gave them the right to fulfill what the terrorists didn’t finish? It wasn’t fair! This isn’t how home was supposed to be. His view wandered from an angry John, on the phone, in the kitchen, to his cross brother before him, and he knew, just knew who had given his friends these rights.

Why hadn’t his apologies been enough? How long would it be, until they were all satisfied? Would he have to die? Should he have just died when he had jumped? Had his planned survival been pointless? His face screwed up in despair. He loved these people. He felt things he wasn’t aware he could feel, all for these individuals, who had managed to break down the walls of his hardened heart.

SHSHSH

Lestrade dashed in, and Mycroft was grateful that the man had enough sense not to rush to Sherlock. No one wanted to hear the overgrown man-child whine anymore. It had grown tiresome. Mycroft raised an eyebrow towards the out of breath DI, and with mock sincerity, apologized, “So sorry, Inspector, I should have had my assistant call one of you to let you know where you had lost my little brother.”

John and Mrs. Hudson came from the kitchen, trays of tea and biscuits in their hands. They settled on the couch, and set their accommodations out. Lestrade went and flopped down beside John, grabbing a cuppa once he was settled. Tension filled the silent room.

“It has come to my attention,” Mycroft began. “That Sherlock has become too much for you three to handle.” He held up his hand to halt their protests and eyed his brother at his indignant noise. “No one blames you for this; it was bound to happen at some point. However, you have had ample time to sort him out, and yet he remains little better than when he was brought to you. Even if Sherlock was becoming as normal as you could have considered him before,” Ignoring the younger of the siblings disgruntled, “I can hear you.” Mycroft ploughed on, “Sherlock has become a hazard to have around. You have displaced your lives for him; he has threatened and almost severely injured, Mrs. Hudson…”

“I have done no such thing, you blithering irritant!” Sherlock remonstrated. “I haven’t even seen her, much less have had contact with the woman.” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed in on Mycroft head, hatred burning a hole through him.

The British Government official continued, as if he had not been interrupted, “He has made multiple attempts to escape your watch, and managed to become successful at it today. Sherlock, as I’m sure you’re aware by now, climbed out his bedroom window, via tied bedclothes, and hailed a taxi, without having payment, and then proceeded to pad into Diogenes Club, looking a disgrace, without shoes even, to find me. Now, I’ll admit, he did not find me out of brotherly love, but to confront me as to why I had rescued him from one pit, to place him in another.” He let his last statement hang in the air, fester in their minds. His glance towards Sherlock showed the man had already exited back to his own world.

Mrs. Hudson gasped, her hand finding way to her gaping mouth, eyes filling with unshed tears. John sat statue still, eyes unfocused, lips pursed in frustration. Greg switched from glaring daggers at Mycroft to gaze with pity at Sherlock. All three knew what was coming, and they didn’t like it one bit. They would fight against it, but really, how do you fight the British Government, it was a pointless cause really.

Mycroft took out his phone, sending a brief text, before rising from his seat. “As it stands, Sherlock needs more care than what you can provide, and I intend to see that he gets it.” Two men in posh, black suits arrived through the flat door, standing guard, awaiting orders.

“Wait just a minute, Mycroft! Sherlock is doing just fine, he still has plenty of moments where he’s out of it, but he’s been lucid a lot too.” John stood and crowded into Mycroft’s personal space, knowing full well what the man intended to do. “He’s recovering and even you must admit that he wouldn’t have improved this much being in some mental facility!”

Lestrade stood protectively in front of where Sherlock sat, feet planted, an unwavering form. “You can’t take him, Mycroft. It will kill him to be placed in an institution; you’ll lose every bit of progress we’ve made. If you could just be patient, give us more time. Maybe help us out with taking care of our work, making it so we have some vacation time,” the DI tried to reason. “He needs more care, more attention, you’re absolutely right; help us give it to him, rather than snatching him and putting him away somewhere.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, “You both act like you’ll not see him ever again. I mean to get him help from professionals. You will still be able to visit him.”

Mrs. Hudson sat, dabbing at her tear soaked eyes and cheeks, sniffling. No one noticed as a certain young genius climbed from his chair, to park himself at her feet. The landlady looked up, surprised, as her confused tenant nestled his head on her lap. She carefully placed a small hand to the back of his curls, giving a gentle pet.

“Don’t snivel, Mrs. Hudson. It'll do nothing to _impede_ the will of Mycroft Holmes.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” Fresh tears spilt down wrinkled cheeks. Mrs. Hudon leant down and placed a soft kiss to dark curls, letting out a pain filled whimper of protest as the two agents pried the poor boy from her legs.

Sherlock kicked up a fuss the whole time, screaming that he didn’t want to leave, he’d changed his mind. “I choose John! I don’t want to go, please don’t make me go! Don’t let them take me; they’re going to hurt me more! John, I choose to stay!”

The doctor looked away from the sorrowful sight, glaring angrily at the government official as he followed his people down the stairs of 221B. Silent tears made way from all their eyes, unsure of how things had managed to get to this point. No one sure as to how they were going to fix this mess.

~SH~SH~SH~

The agents shoved him, none too gently into the awaiting car, pulling onto the road before he even had time to sit up. Mycroft helped him up, allowing him to shy away and plaster himself to the car door farthest away from his brother. He was not looking forward to his imprisonment. Mycroft didn’t think highly of him in the best of times, now, he was probably heading for his worst nightmare.

His mind was still too disoriented to follow every twist and turn the ride made; he wasn’t sure where they were headed. He wished that he had had time to grab his hidden stashes of food, and items of sentiment that he’d ‘collected’.

A bottle of water entered his peripheral vision, he turned away from it, knowing the hand that held it, did not have his best interests at heart. Fool him once, shame on them; fool him twice, shame on him. He would not be shamed for stupidity. Anything his brother gave him would be drugged. So, for now, he would refuse all food and drink.

The windows were tinted; the view was darkened and bothersome to focus on. The atmosphere was thick and tense. His insipid companions were dull. How long would this trip take? His mind would tear itself apart without something to occupy itself.

His brother sighed, and set the water against Sherlock’s leg. “Must you brood? I’m doing what you wanted. You didn’t like your current arrangements, so I am giving you a different one. A place where you are sure to regain yourself, if you cooperate, which I am sure you will.”

Sherlock curled his lip, and wrapped his arms around his knees. Not bothering to respond, he calculated the probability of survival from jumping from a speeding vehicle. As if his thoughts were heard aloud, the doors locked. This was going to be a long drive.

~SH~SH~SH~

Mycroft rolled his eyes at Sherlock’s dramatics. With a sigh he pulled out his laptop and switched on a movie, a children’s movie he recalled his little brother pestering him to watch alongside him multiple times, sometimes in a day. He set it on his lap and turned it to face the sulking man. With his growing boredom, it didn’t take long for Sherlock’s attention to be gained.

The institution he had chosen was a private, highly successful, mental facility. It was located just outside of London, not far from where Mycroft lived. He would be able to visit whenever he got the chance, without a problem.

When they arrived at the establishment, Sherlock got out of his own free will; however, when his eyes skimmed over the building, the tantrum began, full force. It had been expected, and Mycroft had his men manhandle his brother inside. The politician had his assistant call ahead to make the staff apprised of the situation. They were ushered into a large room that had been prepared for his brother.

Sherlock did not calm, even after placed on his new sleep stead and movie turned back on. He screamed and sobbed, spewed his ire at his brother. “I hate you! I hate you! Leave me; I never want to see you again! I want John!” Eventually the man had worked himself up so much that they restrained him, dissolving his mental state further. His mantra of “I want John,” growing louder and wilder.

Mycroft sat on the side of Sherlock’s mattress, brushing an errant curl out his brother’s face. He grabbed a tissue off the nearby nightstand and dabbed at the wet cheeks. Sherlock spat and bit at him, changing from a bratty child to a captured, wild animal. He ignored the spittle on his suit, and continued his ministrations, speaking in calm, hushed tones, to the senseless creature.

Sherlock writhed on the bed, tugging his restrained limbs, hard. His wrists and ankles grew an angry shade of red, tiny ringlets of blood absorbed into the cloth constraints. Mycroft, worried, called for a nurse. The attendant called for backup and once Sherlock’s arm was held still, she plunged a needle into the waiting vein. With the sedative coursing through his system, his brother’s taut form relaxed, easing him into a pliant state. Mycroft looked away from glossy orbs, perturbed at the reminder of his brother’s darker days.

This was going to help Sherlock, they all just had to give it time, it wouldn’t cure him over night. He refused to feel guilty for doing what he saw best, for helping his baby brother. Once his younger sibling fell into a fitful sleep, Mycroft left him, blinking back the non-existent wetness in his eyes. He wouldn’t let Sherlock fall any further into himself; he wouldn’t let anything stand in the way of Sherlock’s recovery. It was essential that Sherlock Holmes recovered.


	7. The Best Laid Plans of Mice and Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft steps in

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hope you guys like it! Working on ch8 now, but am having difficulty. I also have less time due to school and finals approaching.
> 
> I am sad to say I see the story coming to an end around chapter 10. I don't want it to, but I've run out of plot ideas. There is only so much angst you guys can take, I'm sure lol. If you have ideas, I'm open to suggestions. In the mean time, I hope you enjoy chapter 7. I'll be pasting a betaed version, when I get the copy.

Mycroft sighed. He would never admit defeat to anyone, but John knew a desperate man and a silent cry for help from anywhere. It didn’t hurt that he spoke ‘Holmesian’ so well either.  
“Mycroft, Sherlock needs his ‘family’. I think you should let us see him,” John reasoned. “You know that he needs our support, now more than ever. You keeping him locked away from the world like this will kill him.”  
“Sherlock has become increasingly volatile to all persons, including those he knows, Dr. Watson. What makes you think that he won’t hesitate to lash out at you?” Mycroft sneered.  
“Maybe we could try and bring him something that might lift his spirits,” Lestrade suggested, changing the topic.  
“What do you have in mind Inspector?” Mycroft asked, brow raised, a smirk back in place.  
“You’re his brother, you should know better than anyone what would make him content.”  
“I should, but he and I were never that close.”  
“What about his violin?” offered Mrs. Hudson. “He’s always playing his violin when he’s having one of his moods. It usually cheers him up.”  
“That’s not a bad idea,” John agreed. “I can’t think of anything legal that soothes him better.  
“I would not risk such a valuable asset, to Sherlock’s unpredictability. If any harm should come to his precious instrument, he would be most horrid, and that is putting it mildly,” scoffed Mycroft, rolling his eyes. “I was thinking something along the lines of a therapy animal. Sherlock had a dog once, one that he cherished, as much as he cherishes anything really. My only concern with that would be he would most likely wish to keep the pet afterwards and we all know how that would go. My brother can barely care for himself, the animal would probably die, and then we would have an even bigger strop to deal with. Sherlock really is impossible to deal with.”  
John thought for a moment before grinning, “I think I may have a solution for that problem. Let me see if I can work something out. In the meantime, get us access to Sherlock, and start keeping us up to date when we aren’t there. Next time, I may not hold back from marring your presentable face.” He glared at the older man before he slipped to the kitchen to make a call, leaving Greg and Mrs. Hudson to gather the details. They would be seeing Sherlock tomorrow or the next day, if all went according to plan.  
~SH~SH~SH~   
As the fever dissipated, Sherlock found his heavy limbs and discombobulated brain more under his control. Men and women dressed in uniforms with a variety of colored and cartooned tops came and went. Sherlock refused to cooperate with any of them. He wouldn’t let them replace his tubes, help him to the toilet, or allow the foreign hands to pet and console, or medicate and soothe. If they wanted to control him they should have left him.  
His noncompliance was costing him greatly. He was hungry, and he really needed to use the facilities. His previous assistants, or caregivers, he was unsure as how to label them, had been replaced by a snarky, impatient minder. He easily deduced that the large man was angry at his finance for putting their wedding off…again. The pale ring on his finger would become raw if he didn’t stop rubbing it so fiercely.  
He hadn’t seen him for hours, after the man had given up on trying to get him to eat and to the bathroom. The nurse had sneered something at him, something about “holding it ‘til he felt good and ready to come back and tend to him again”. Sherlock really hoped that would be soon, he regretted being so stubborn now. His bladder was pulsing, and every heartbeat seemed to shudder its way down to the storage site for urine, making it increasingly more difficult to not wet himself. He wasn’t a child though, and he had ignored his transport for much longer than this. Still, they hadn’t managed to restrain him again, maybe he could make his way to the restroom himself…he could get water from the sink while he was there too. Mind made up, Sherlock progressively managed to sit up, painstakingly slow, easing his legs over the side of the bed. He heaved with the effort it took, and waited until he had calmed before letting his feet touch the cold tiles. It hurt, but he managed to put weight on his unused limbs, even brief as it was. His only thought as his legs gave out was, “Mistake!”  
~SH~SH~SH~  
Patrick Hayden wasn’t a bad man, he wasn’t really violent, didn’t often lose his temper, but sometimes, he would just have days where everything would weigh down on him and he just couldn’t take anymore. Today was one of those days. His fiancé postponed their wedding a third time, for whatever reason. He suspected she was cheating on him and just leeched off his money. Bill collectors were constantly breathing down his neck, calling at all hours of the day; and to top it all off, his ‘top priority’ patient, apparently a sibling of someone important, was being exceedingly difficult.  
It had been three hour since he had last dealt with the man, and his mood hadn’t improved any, if anything it was worse. Honestly, if the guy wasn’t willing to cooperate and help himself there was no point in him being here or nurses wasting their time on him. There were plenty of other patients that wanted help or couldn’t honestly help themselves. It was made worse by the fact that his co-workers kept harping on how important it was that his patient get the proper care and respect, as if he didn’t know how to do his job! His patient was no more special than his grandmother, and he and his family were hard pressed to get her in anywhere, must less somewhere really nice.  
The thoughts continued to twist and harbor deep into his mind as he followed the route back to Sherlock’s room. A tray of fresh food in hand, scorn not quite faded from his façade, he entered the silent room. The room was dark, no one had bothered to flip the light switch to turn on a lamp for a man who did little more than stare at a wall all day. Whimpers and quiet sobs danced across sensitive ears, and for a brief moment, Patrick felt remorse for his hateful judgments. His patient seemed to be in the clutches of a nightmare, and whatever caused him to retreat into himself, probably wasn’t pleasant.  
The guilt ate away at him briefly, before he turned the overhead on. The room now illuminated with the fluorescent bulb on the ceiling, the nurse’s eyes found his patient on the floor, tangled in sodden sheets, visibly distraught. The pathetic form was wrapped around himself, rocking methodically as muffled cries escaped chaffed lips. The saturated sheets, merely damp now, tangled in a mess of limbs. The odor permeating the air had the male nurse curling his lip in distaste.  
~SH~SH~SH~  
Pitiful, cautious eyes found hardened contemptuous orbs. “What the heck have you done? Did you wet yourself, like a baby?” the jeer caused Sherlock to flinch, as if an animal had snapped at him. The mocking laugh that followed renewed moisture on his face. He hid his face in shame, burying his head as far as his back would allow, in between his knees.  
Harsh fingers grabbed the nape of his neck, another hand grabbed his arm. He was painfully hauled up, losing balance with the mesh of sheets around his legs. He lost his balance, but the grip never slackened, keeping him partially upright, as gravity pulled him down. He was being dragged, panic swelled deep within him as the shame was pushed back. He urged his arms to fight, flailing about to hit his target. His legs and feet still entwined, useless, worked against him.  
“Please, please! I’m sorry. It was an accident!” It really had been, it had already been difficult to hold it after so long, but after his legs had collapsed out from under him, the sudden surprise and impact had instantly caused his bladder to release. It had been beyond his control. When his arm and fist met flesh, the fingers dung in deeper into his skin. Sherlock gasped in pain, but continued to squirm.  
The struggle couldn’t have lasted more than a few seconds before he was being flung away, landing hard on the cold tiles. His minder stooped low to face him, as he tried to scramble away, shoving the rest of the sheets in with him. In? His back touched wall, he frantically searched his new surroundings, three walls, and an opening. The exit blocked by his tormenter.  
Eyes blown wide, heart rate increased, lungs tight and clogged, he was helpless to stop from being trapped. The man continued to sneer and mock him, laughing cruelly. He pleaded, apologized, begged some more, but it was all for naught. The man before, squatting to eye level, reveled in the power he held.  
“I think the little one needs a time out. Maybe then you’ll learn to cooperate and stop causing trouble. With that, the door was sealed and darkness engulfed the room and the soul trapped inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sad to say I see the story coming to an end around chapter 10. I don't want it to, but I've run out of plot ideas. There is only so much angst you guys can take, I'm sure lol. If you have ideas, I'm open to suggestions. In the mean time, I hope you enjoy chapter 7. I'll be pasting a betaed version, when I get the copy.


	8. Rescuing Captain Holmes from the Raging Sea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hope you guys like it! Just a couple more weeks before finals are finished, then I can start on chapter 9!
> 
> If you have ideas, I'm open to suggestions. In the mean time, I hope you enjoy chapter 8. I'll be pasting a betaed version, when I get the copy.

Rescuing Captain Holmes from the Raging Sea

John met Molly soon after Mycroft’s departure to discuss the possibility of a pet for Sherlock. The day after, together, with Mycroft’s helpful interference, they set about to find a puppy for Sherlock, at St’ John’s Ambulance. Mycroft had had all the paperwork filled out, got them skipped a few steps in the process, and the only thing left to do was to find the perfect pup. It had been agreed that Molly would take care of the animal since there would be a lot less risk of the animal getting into some type of dangerous chemical and Molly was sure to take care of it.

The manager of the facility, Mrs. Charlotte Patterson, personally attended them, guiding them to kennel after kennel. Each animal had a name and a story, and their own unique personality. Molly adored each one they came across, but John wasn’t sure which would suit Sherlock best. Eventually they had to tell the supervisor that they were looking for a dog, as the variety of animals housed were too numerous to go through. Though, both John and Molly had to admit, it was pretty cool to see that lizards and hedgehogs could be therapeutic pets too.

No one had really given much thought as to breed of dog, but the blogger assumed it probably wouldn’t matter much to the detective. They passed Bulldogs, Labradors, and Setters, all of which radiated excitement over being prospectively put to work. When they came to the mixed breeds, is when they found their perfect match: an English Setter/Labrador mix, name Shinzie.

Shinizie was on the smaller side of the average medium size dog, with features more similar to her Labrador heritage than the English Setter. Her silky fur was short and shaggy around her slender neck, all the way to the tip of her tail. Her ears were similar to her body, but her face was smooth and kempt. Her coal fur was littered with blotches of white and beige, looking like a midnight sky adorned with glittering stars and bright planets.

“Shinzie is one of our most recent ordained therapy dogs, she is just a few months out of training,” Their guide informed the duo with a proud smile.   
Molly leaned down slipping her fingers through the metal slates, beckoning the pup over. Shinzie hurried to lap at the offered limb, lavishing slobbery kiss after slobbery kiss, barking a hello after the first couple licks. “She seems quite happy and loving,” the pathologist noted, petting Shinzie’s snout.

“Is she very excitable?” inquired John, smiling down at Molly and the puppy. “Our friend, he’s kinda withdrawn at the moment, I’m not sure he can handle a lot of excitement.”  
“She is quite the eager girl, but her personality when her harness on is instantly calm and professional,” Mrs. Patterson informed them. “Shinzie is one of our dogs who are more in tune with their handler’s needs. She will be able to use appropriate reaction to whatever emotion she senses. If her patient is anxious, she will remain composed and work to calm the handler. However, once she is out of the harness, she will act like any other normal, playful puppy.”

“Sounds good to me.” John bent down to eye level with the animal, reaching past Molly to give Shinzie a scratch to her ear, “Whatcha think, girl? You want to come live with us, and give us a paw with our friend?” 

The Doctor and Pathologist grinned at one another with the resounding bark in response. Molly looked back at Charlotte, and nodded, “We’ll take her!”

~SH~SH~SH~

Soft whimpers passed through trembling, chaffed lips. Tearstained alabaster skin sullied with snot and sick. The mixture of bile and excrement encompassed the small face, causing the shivering form to gag and dry-heave. His throat was raw from all the screaming, crying, and vomiting, and the acid that tempted to make an appearance burned even more so. His body hurt too, but that didn’t make sense, he hadn’t hit or knocked against anything that he could remember. The exception being when he tried to ram the door open, but that was just with his shoulder. He didn’t remember wetting himself either, but he must have, and it was extremely uncomfortable.

Mycroft had warned him against playing in the woods alone. Sherlock was an intelligent individual, why hadn’t he been smart enough to at least tell someone where he was going to explore? “I wish Redbeard were still here,” he sniffled, arm coming to wipe the mucus from his upper lip and nostrils; small arms wrapped around bony legs and chin rested atop pointy knees.

His home’s backyard, blanketed with luscious greenery, bordered a rather inviting piece of wooded land. Hidden deep inside of the property, guarded by an armory of trees and thorny thickets, set a rundown, abandoned shack. The windows were boarded up, and the door was nailed shut, but if he wiggled a small plank on the exterior, he was sure he could squeeze through. He had never hated being right more in his short years. His too small form had easily slipped in the forced crack, but as soon as he had slithered in, the plank fell back into place, leaving him trapped inside. Unlike the rough edges on the outside, the wood on the inside was still smooth and had nothing to grip to displace it.  
It had been dark all the while, and it made it impossible to tell how much time had passed. He had thought that he had packed his survival and science kit, but apparently he had foolishly left it behind. The young genius wasn’t necessarily afraid of the dark, however, he wasn’t terribly keen on not being able to see and know his surroundings.

Howling interrupted the silence, small hands slammed against his cold ears to block out the terrifying noise. Wind beat down in the compact building, announcing the approaching storm. He involuntarily shivered, though it wasn’t chilly; unsure if he was more fearful of what he couldn’t see around him or the monsters that lay in wait outside.  
“Please let someone find me. I’ll be good and will follow all the rules! Please just let me out,” the child pleaded and whined. That was an untruth if anyone had heard one, but the frightened youngling believed his claims with all his heart.

~SH~SH~SH~

Linda Johnson had been working at the mental health facility for well over twelve years, and she had known every patient on the second floor for the entire duration of her job. It was a rare occurrence for patients to fully recover; so few had family that cared to visit them, much less take them for a house visit. Therefore, when she saw a sign on the metal handle, leading into room 212, about the man’s sibling taking him home, she grinned, bright and wide.

The middle aged grandmother entered, humming cheerfully. The tune was a melody from her granddaughter’s favorite movie, ‘the Pagemaster’, called ‘Whatever You Imagine’. Linda continued to hum, singing a verse or two when they entered her mind, as she changed bed clothing and trash bags. Her nose crinkled against a malodorous odor, but she couldn’t find its source. She settled on sprinkling carpet cleaner and spraying aerosol to cleanse the smell. She dusted while she waited for the chemicals to settle, doing her very best to not move anything out of place, aware that most patients preferred their belongings untouched.

Half way through her cleaning spree, she switched to singing, ‘You Are My Sunshine,’ a song she found soothed many of the more unsettled sorts that lived here. The kindly maid then began to vacuum up the smelling salts off the floor, accidently ramming the closet door and the nightstand near the bed. Items jostled, but didn’t fall. Before she left, Linda unlocked the window’s latch and lifted the glass, allowing fresh air in, and the chemicals out.

~SH~SH~SH~

Ear pressed tight against wood, half asleep, Sherlock’s mind absorbed as much of the muffled, music and words that he could. His throat was too raw to call out above a whisper and his body hurt too much from the convulsions and pounding against his entrapment. He didn’t remember how he got into the dark cabin, just that he wanted out. Images of burly men, angry and cruel, laughing, taunting, hurting, flashed before his eyes; one of them had grabbed his arm, firm and painful. His bladder had released against his will, without him asking permission for it to occur at all; yes, that sounded right. They must have throttled him and then proceeded to shove him into the confined darkness for his insolence. He was going to tell on them to Mycroft; his big brother wouldn’t allow them to bully him.

Although they don’t have the best of relationship, Mycroft was always there to help Sherlock. The Holmes boys were not very popular with other kids in school, but they had each other. Mycroft may have the superior mind, but Sherlock excelled in other areas. Redbeard aside, Mycroft always looked after his little brother, in his own demeaning way. 

Sherlock was often the biggest target for the bullies in his school. Mycroft, on the other hand, would always bribe bullies away; he’d even tried to bribe Sherlock’s bullies to leave him alone. Sherlock would protest with the usual “I’m not a baby, Mycroft!” The young genius wanted to show his brother that he could look after himself. Even if Sherlock was capable of doing so, it never stopped the British Government from keeping an eye on his young, wayward brother. The git was always interfering in Sherlock’s life.

Cocooned in the bleak blackness, a familiar tune hummed low from his throat. He was particularly fond of movies with out-casted characters; when he was six, he’s still ashamed to admit, his favorite cinema was ‘Dumbo’. Mycroft was revolted by the childish musical with singing and dancing animals. Nonetheless, every once in a while, on particularly bad days, Mycroft would sing his own version of a melody from the show.

The most memorable occasion being on the afternoon their mother had forced them to take a walk in the park near their home. To socialize and make friends were her reasons, but she had soon regretted it. A few of the bigger students in his class, who particularly hated him, decided to gang up on Sherlock. The scoundrels had manhandled and dumped him in a garbage bin, which they then proceeded to kick over and roll back and forth between them. The herd of neighborhood kids that had initially gathered to see the cause of ruckus, soon joined in on the fun of taunting and tormenting him.

A teenage Mycroft, and his acquaintances, came to the young one’s rescue, putting a stop to the brats’ fun. He cautioned them away from his beloved brother; informed them that he had eyes and ears all over the school and playground, and if they did not heed his warning, it would not be the last they had seen of Mycroft Holmes.  
As the cowardous cretins dispersed, Mycroft beckoned Sherlock from his imprisonment, “Come out, Sherlock, it’s alright.”

The frightened child came out of the metal tin, tears splayed across rosy cheeks and snot running from his nose to his chin. Sherlock had raised his arm to wipe away the gross excrements, but whimpered in pain instead. Mycroft had gathered him up, snot and all, and strolled away from the site of his misery. As they made their way back home, his big brother had begun to hum, which then turned into singing, “…Brother mine, dry your eyes, rest your head close to my heart……Little one, when you play, don’t you mind what they say……If they knew sweet little you, they’d end up loving you too……You’re so precious to me, sweet as can be, brother of mine.”

His brother never could get the perfect pitch, or the tune just right, but the sentiment it held was more than enough for Sherlock to love it all the same. A song the older sibling despised, easily swept from tender lips, as if he did it every day. Sherlock curled into himself, imagining his brother’s arms wrapped around him. Yes, Mycroft would make them all pay, and then he’d pick Sherlock up, and take all his troubles away.

~SH~SH~SH~

The pitter patter of paws followed close between Molly and John. The two doctors, along with Lestrade, were in tow behind Mycroft grinning like idiots. Today was the day that were finally going to see Sherlock. Lestrade carried games, such as cluedo, to help stave away the improbable boredom, and John had sweet treats from Mrs Hudson, as anything in a hospital was automatically inedible.

The group sidled up to the observation room, where all but Mycroft entered, to await to see their turn with the genius detective. The elder Holmes continued to the entrance of his brother’s room. He eyed the sign attached to the door, perplexed; he snatched the paper off, glaring at it with controlled fury. If they had allowed someone to take his baby brother, the whole facility would pay a price.

The outraged sibling stalked over to the nurse’s station and stood at the desk. His fury emanated off in waves. The head nurse sat, filing her nails, obviously uninterested in what was occurring on her floor. She wore too much makeup, but it did nothing to conceal the skin trouble she was having. When the lady took notice of the government official, her brow rose. “Hello sir, how may I help you today?” Her voice sounded more as if she spoke through her nose, rather than her mouth, and the noise that flowed grated against Mycroft’s ears.

Mycroft sneered down at the woman, taking in facts that would no doubt ruin her. Her body language, her attitude, everything spoke of her lack of desire to actually help anyone, but herself. She gossiped about coworkers to get in good with those in higher positions, neglected her patients for long periods, and according to her nail polish, accepted bribes. “I would appreciate, if could spare a moment from your vanity,” he drawled, looking pointedly to the expensive make-up and handheld mirror, “to earn your paycheck, by telling me where exactly, my brother is.” His own posture calm and disinterested, contradicted his infuriated and demanding tone.  
The mousy nurse squeaked in indignation, but turned to her computer nonetheless. “Name of patient?”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“The patient is currently located in his assigned quarters. It’s room 212, sir, just down the hall.” She jutted her thumb to a corridor behind her.

“Mycroft gave her a patronizing smile, “Thank you, Patricia.” He headed back in the direction he came from, meeting John at the door.

“What’s going on, Mycroft?” He held the sign in his hands, confused and concerned. He looked over his shoulder to ensure they were not being eavesdropped on. “Did something happen to Sherlock?” Fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, wrinkling and tearing at the offending paper.

“That is what I would like to know, Dr. Watson.” Mycroft turned the knob, taking in every detail about the assumingly empty area. The room was immaculate, left in pristine condition. It would look unoccupied, were it not for the personal belongings littered about. A flowery scent was doing a horrible job at covering a putrid odor.  
John did his own survey, face contorted in worry. He wandered to the connecting bathroom and checked it out. It was clean, just as its counterpart, but there was no foul smell. He checked behind the shower curtain and inside the towel cupboard. Nothing out of place.

Mycroft followed his nose to the closet door, off to the side. He glanced toward the floor; coming out from under the crack of the barrier was some sort of greenish-yellow fluid. The older man narrowed his eyes in suspicion. Mycroft twisted the handle.

John exited the bathroom as the closet forced open. The occupant fell from his freed prison, unconscious and transparent. The doctor recovered first, fighting off the impending emotions desperately, to take control of the situation. He rushed to kneel before the sickly man, “Sherlock!” He leant in close, his face mere inches from Sherlock’s and two fingers pressed firmly to his wrist, feeling for a pulse. “He’s breathing…He’s alive!”

Mycroft dropped to his knees, fear trying to crack through the calm façade, and gathered his brother in his arms. Lestrade and Molly clamored in, to see what was going on with their friend, concern etched clearly on their faces. Shinzie pulled her leash through Molly’s loose grip and hovered near her new owner’s prone form. The pup lapped gently at a lifeless limb, comforting, waking.

Relief flooded through them all, as unfocused, greyish orbs fluttered open. Limp hand naturally curled around the snout, as Shinzie nuzzled into the attention. A collective sigh, followed by a choked sob, filled the room at the innocent, hopeful askance of, “My?”

~SH~SH~SH~

Warmth and pressure engulfed him. Soft and furry rubbed against him, hot and wet slivered against his skin, cooling as soon as the air touched it. He wrapped a hand against the silk and was rewarded by further nestling. This wasn’t pain or punishment, nor anger or hate; the stark contrast to what he had been experiencing, what he expected, jolted his system, urging him to awaken. He needed to discover this new world, absorb it all, before it was taken away. 

He forced his eyes to flicker, sleep blurring his vision. The longer his eyelids would stay open, the better he could take in his surroundings. There he was! His keeper, his safe haven, his brother, embracing him, saving him. Still, he was no novice for ruses. 

“My?” Sherlock asked, cautious. The child like detective weakly wrapped his arms around his brother, silent tears of joy, flowing freely. “My, you found me! You came for me!”  
“Always, Sherlock, always,” Mycroft whispered his assurance as he brushed fingers through raven curls. Mycroft didn’t look right, there was no firm, protective façade or brotherly love expression, he looked angry, scared. Sherlock didn’t like that at all.

He intertwined his fingers with the sleeve of Mycroft’s jacket, snuggling his nose deep into his chest, unaware of the mess he was smearing all over the expensive outfit. He wanted to cry out all the fright he had felt, but didn’t want to appear a baby to Mycroft. He subconsciously reached out a hand, seeking the mellifluous fleece that had nuzzled against him earlier. His hand barely extended before he found the desired contact.

He was safe, content. He could stay this way for the rest of his life, cuddled up on his brother’s lap, face buried against the thumping heartbeat. Maybe Mycroft would help him delete the bad memories later. For now, it was good just to be held.

~SH~SH~SH~

The British government stared at the doctor that stood beside him, breathing heavily, trying to hold the anger that burned within him. “Dr. Watson, if you would be so kind as to attend to my brother. I need to restore balance to the universe.”

“Of course, you don’t really have to ask,” John breathed, as he gently took Sherlock in his grasp. Sherlock struggled against the new grip, even as Mycroft attempted to soothe and reassure him that he would be in good hands. It was no easy feat, but eventually Sherlock’s tangle of limbs were wrapped around the army doctor, rather than the elder sibling, much like a child clinging to his mother. “It’s alright Sherlock, it’s me, John. Don’t worry, everything is going to be alright,” John murmured softly, petting the detective’s head.

Molly gave a gentle tug on Shinzie’s leash to prod the pup back to her side, giving John more room to maneuver the stroppy genius up and out of the confining space. She gave Sherlock’s arm a kind pat and smiled down at him, trying her hardest not to cry along with him. “Yes, everything is ok now. You’ll see.” She led the therapy dog out and found another empty room for them to use.

“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up,” John said as he pried Sherlock off of him. He stood Sherlock to his feet, never once loosening his hold, and turned to look at Mycroft. “If you need help finding the joker that did this...” He needn’t finish the sentence; the lethal politician knew exactly what he was trying to say.

“Not to worry, Dr. Watson, it won’t be necessary.” John nodded. The blogger gingerly guided his friend through the door and out into the halls. It was painful to ignore Sherlock’s choked pleas for Mycroft to hold him, to not let him be taken away. The blogger quickly spotted Molly in the entrance of another private room and managed to get the fragile genius to the bathroom within.

Without glancing away from the trail of foul mess left in Sherlock’s wake, Mycroft addressed the waiting DI, “Inspector, if you wouldn’t mind, I will need your assistance in finding justice. Someone played a little game with Sherlock, and they will pay.” The darkness in the tone, the words, made Lestrade shudder. He nodded and placed the board games he had held onto a table beside the bed. He wasn’t sure what sort of justice he would prefer, municipal and mild, compared, or discreet and deadly. He followed the elder Holmes towards the nurses station, both sporting murderous mugs. Regardless of personal reasons, it was his job to remain impartial and upright. Real justice would be met tonight.  
“Excuse me ma’am, would you be so kind as to call on all staff members that have worked with the patient named, Sherlock Holmes, to a meeting room right this moment.” The Detective Inspector flashed his badge, keeping his voice calm, but strong.

The mousy nurse, the same one that Mycroft had spoken with earlier, squeaked a reply, “Yes, sir! Right away!” Ever eager to stay on the police’s good side; she may be self-absorbed, but she wasn’t stupid. Though she was interested in seeing who was going to get it. She would be immensely popular with the latest gossip, for weeks. She searched the computer records and made some calls, including her supervisor. Not many had the privilege of working with the special patient, so it wouldn’t take long, she hoped.  
~SH~SH~SH~

Sherlock sat quietly on a clean hospital bed, raising his arms above his head as the blond haired man slipped a clean shirt on him. He had been carefully bathed a few moments ago, and now he was dressed in brand new, freshly cleaned clothes. His gaze stuck to the floor, petulant and dejected, he pouted. The man and lady stood beside him, placing soothing touches, reassuring him, engaging him, but he stoutly ignored them both. He wanted Mycroft, but Mycroft didn’t want him.

Little feet pawed against his leg, vying for his attention. He glanced up to see the pretty lady holding up a coal coated version of Redbeard. He gazed in awe as his hand raised up to absentmindedly stroke the animal’s fur. The puppy licked his hand, encouraging him to continue. 

“Sherlock, I want you to meet a friend of mine. Say hello Shinzie.” He grinned a childish grin, petting more confidently. The pretty lady and man chuckled when he giggled, he couldn’t help it. Who wouldn’t laugh at having an overeager first mate kissing your nose?

~SH~SH~SH~

There were a number of medical staff lined against the depressingly white wall of the faculty breakroom. Some looked nervous, others bored or agitated, but none seemed decidedly guilty, thought Lestrade. He watched Mycroft Holmes eye the bunch, knowing that the politician shared the same sharp mind and observant gaze of his brother. “We appreciate your cooperation so far. We are investigating a crime that was committed; done to a patient you all have in common.”

The group shared awkward glances, confused with the situation Lestrade presented them with. The room was full of whispered inquiries and shrugged replies. Mycroft allowed the exchanges and chuckled humorlessly at their incompetence. Getting down to business, Mycroft gave a demeaning half clap, “Now that I have your attention, shall we begin?” He propped against the table behind and crossed his arms, looking smug and dangerous. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way, and believe me when I say, you do not wish for me to extract the information I am seeking, the hard way.”

Mycroft glowered at the crowd of nurses and held up the illegal, crumpled piece of paper. “Which one of you placed this sign on my brother’s door?” His voice was stern, threatening, promising retribution for the guilty party.

The muddle erupted into an uproar as every staff member proclaimed their innocence, begging to be believed. However, one particular voice stood out amongst them all, and it was not expressing confusion or fear, it was angry. Mycroft honed in on the individual, focusing on the demeanor of the man. He was outraged that he would be accused at all. That he was pulled from his work for something so ludicrous. He wasn’t concerned or afraid, and technically wasn’t denying either. His form was taut, and hunched, looking as if he would explode at any given moment. Mycroft met Lestrade’s eyes and gave a nod. They both gave a cynical grin. ‘We’ve got you.”

They say “Hell hath no fury, like a woman scorned,” they have obviously never incurred the wrath of one Mycroft Holmes. He was deathly calm and hadn’t needed to raise his voice to command the attention of the entire room. The chaos silenced as everyone awaited their fate. “While it is possible that some of you could have worked together to have caused the damage to my brother, I do not believe that is what occurred,” the elder Holmes addressed the nurses. There was a collective sigh when he announced, “All of you are free to leave, except you,” he pointed to Patrick Hayden. “Inspector Lestrade, would you please arrest this nurse?”

Lestrade pulled out his handcuffs walked over to the shocked man, “What’s your name?”

“Patrick. Patrick Hayden, sir.” When the inspector placed his hand on the man’s shoulder, the struggle commenced. “You have the wrong guy! I didn’t do anything!”  
Lestrade wrestled Hayden into submission, forcing his arms behind his back, enclosing them in the metal cuffs. “You are under arrest for suspicion of assaulting and confining Sherlock Holmes. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law…”

Mycroft ignored the mundane right’s reading, and slipped by the two, turning the lock on the door with a heavy ‘click’. He grabbed a chair and placed it behind the male nurse, once Lestrade had moved on and moved to stand in front. “Sit,” he ordered, leaving no room for argument.

Patrick slowly sat in the designated seat, hunched forward to accommodate his restricted limbs. He molded his face to fit innocent and indignation. If he played his cards right, he may yet leave this room a free man.

“Alright start talking,” Lestrade commanded. His mobile gave a buzz and he momentarily excused himself to answer the call.

Harsh breathing broke then thick silence. The guilty remained stoic, but his rate of respiration increased. He knew he had been caught, however his mind reeled, trying to figure out where he went wrong. It never occurred to him that his dirty deeds were what had been wrong; no, he was concerned about where he missed covering his tracks.

His lips, thinned out and sealed, refused to incriminate himself any more. He fidgeted in the chair, unable to meet the overbearing glower from the suit clad politician. The silence was deafening, uncomfortable. Mycroft circled him like a predator stalking its prey; heated glare unwavering. The police inspector sat off to the side, speaking softly into his phone. After the call had ended, Patrick had two pair of eyes boring into him.

His leg began to shake, up and down, over and over, relentless. His hands grew clammy. How long could he deny his crime? Crime, the very word made his actions seem that much more real, so despicable. Maybe he did deserve to be punished, but he didn’t feel so bad as to confess and let the two government officials ruin his life forever. Mistakes happen; small mistakes, such as his, should not leave worlds in shambles. He wouldn’t lose without a fight.

~SH~SH~SH~

Back and forth, like a rocking horse, or a ship on the sea, such a soothing repetition. The blonde man, John apparently, wouldn’t let him go back to Mycroft or play. He had to sit on the bed and do nothing. No fair. He kept saying that Sherlock “is very, very sick,” but he doesn’t feel ill. ‘Am I dying?’ That’s a scary thought. Where were mummy and daddy? Did they not want him anymore, either? 

Where was Redbeard? Is the puppy sleeping on his legs, Redbeard; did they dye her fur? The lady, Molly, stopped black Redbeard from jumping up on him, but he wanted to hug and tumble with the puppy. Why shouldn’t he, she was his pet after all.

The two grown-ups stopped bothering to try and converse with him. He didn’t want to talk to them, they spoke to him like they would a baby. He was a big boy! He was even in advance classes at school; granted he was bored with the work they provided. Who cares if the sun revolves around the earth or vice versa! Would knowing that saturated fats were solid at room temperature, and unsaturated fats were liquid, help him in the future? …well, yes, actually it probably would, now that he thought about it. Perhaps he could do an experiment with the two when he got to go home.

A growl rumbled from his tummy, he rubbed at the hunger pains, willing them to disappear. They wouldn’t feed him either. Sherlock didn’t like them too much anymore. He should be grateful that they allowed him small sips of water, at the very least. He could get full on water, if they would let him, but no…that is too much to ask for. He snarled at the thought.

“Why can’t you just examine me?” Sherlock whined. “You’re both physicians after all. Probably competent enough to do the task too.”  
John and Molly looked at him, surprised. “You can recall that we are doctors, but not who we are?” John was skeptical.

“I don’t remember that you’re doctors.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I can see that you’re both in the medical profession,” His usual deep baritone voice, lilted up and down in a childish, superior, ‘duh huh’ tone.

Molly grinned, though her eyes remained sad, “Oh? What are the tell-tell signs?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “You don’t believe me,” he accused.

“We believe you, Sherlock,” Molly assured him.

John nodded, “We’ve seen you deduce loads of people.”

“Really?” still skeptical. “How long have you known me then? Why don’t I know you?”

John grimaced and Molly sniffled. “You do know us, you just don’t remember us right now.”

“Because I’m sick, right”

“Yes,” Molly confirmed. “Don’t worry though, you’ll be better in no time.”

“Why don’t I feel sick?” Sherlock clutched at the lump of fur on his lap, insecure. ‘Why won’t someone just tell me what is going on?’

Before either doctor could respond, Mycroft waltzed through the door, another man on his heels. Bare feet met cold tile, as Sherlock shoved the dog from his legs and hopped from the bed. His brother opened his arms and Sherlock slammed into his chest. If not for man behind them, both Holmes boys would have ended up sprawled on the unforgiving floor.

“Sherlock! Settle down this instance,” the elder sibling commanded. “I was not gone long and you were in very capable hands.”

 

“I’m dying, My!” came the muffled response. “I don’t wish to die…I’m frightened.”

“What?!” There was a pause where no arms encircled him and silence reigned. He was about to look up when Mycroft returned his hug. “You silly child, you aren’t dying.” Mycroft chuckled.

“But they said that I’m very, very, ill,” Sherlock accused, jutting a finger behind himself, without removing his nose from the warm, expensive cotton.

~SH~SH~SH~

“I’m dying, My!” came the muffled response. “I don’t wish to die…I’m frightened.”

Mycroft stiffened, “What?!” He looked to John, panicked. He didn’t take notice of any signs that Sherlock was so badly off. John shook his head, clearly amused, yet still quite bemused. The elder embraced his brother, shaking his head. He had determined Sherlock’s state of mind by this point, and wasn’t quite able to deduce if it was any better than his previous mind set. “You silly child, you aren’t dying,” Mycroft forced a laugh, despite the situation, for Sherlock’s sake.

“But they said that I’m very, very, ill,” Sherlock indicated to the two medics behind him, defiant; still tucked securely against Mycroft.

Mycroft raised a brow, looking expectantly at John and Molly. Both shrugged their shoulders, looking apologetic. He sighed, patting Sherlock’s back. Brining Sherlock up to his full height, he guided his head to Mycroft’s shoulder. He might think he’s a kid, but physically he was a full grown adult. If he had stayed hunched up, face to Mycroft’s heart, he was bound to have a back ache. No sense in causing more problems, when you could help it. “I’m sure the good doctors didn’t mean any harm. Though you shouldn’t doubt their words, they know what they are talking about, after all.

Sherlock loosened his hold to take a step back. His brows furrowed he glanced back and forth between Mycroft and John. “So I am sick? Is it bad?” He looked down at his body, examining his limbs and fingers.

“No, it’s nothing too serious,” John answered. He hesitated to continue, unsure of how well being told you’d been traumatized into regression, would be handled. “You had a very scary experience, and your brain is having trouble coping with it…so it chose to forget until it knew how to deal with the experience.”

“Oh,” Sherlock scratched his head. “So, it would be similar to when a computer gets a virus and deletes infected and uninfected files to rid itself of the contamination. The files are recoverable, but not until the virus is gone. Right?”

Lestrade laughed outright. Leave it to Sherlock to be comparing his brain to a hard drive, even as a tyke. “Something like that, Sunshine.” When Sherlock faced him, it was nearly heartbreaking, to see lack of recognition, again. He seemed unsure on how to take the unfamiliar sentiment, but settled on smiling at the inspector. Whether it was from the affection or being right, was unclear.

“Yes, and you might feel a little confused and frightened by a lot of things,” Molly added. “There might be people around you that you may not remember-“  
“Like you,” Sherlock interrupted.

Molly chuckled, “Yes, like me. And John, and that over there is Greg.” Shinzie, feeling left out, whined for attention. Molly looked down and gave the pup a pat. When she looked back up, Sherlock was staring at the black furred creature in awe.

“Does that mean, that that is Redbeard? Did you guys paint her black, to disguise her and keep the veterinarian from putting her down? She didn’t mean to hurt, Henry. She was just protecting me.”

Mycroft frowned, unpleased that his little brother still had memory of that moment. “No, ‘Locke. Redbeard is no longer with us. This dog is new. Your friends here thought you might enjoy the company and make you feel better.” 

Sherlock, downtrodden, nodded. “Oh, I see.” He looked up at Molly, “Are you guys going to take her away again since I’m so sick?” His hand fell to play with the drawstring on his trousers.

John shook his head, “No, Sherlock, she’s yours. She’ll sleep at Molly’s, but she’s your friend to play with to your heart’s content.”

“Alright!” He dropped to his knees and patted his legs repeatedly. “Come Blackbeard, come here girl,” he called enthusiastically.

John, Molly, and Lestrade shared a laugh. “It doesn’t take much to please him, that’s a nice change,” smiled Lestrade.

Mycroft pursed his lips, “Manners, Sherlock.”

“Oh, right.” Sherlock rose long enough to give a swift hug to Molly and John, and a shy one to Lestrade before bouncing back to Shinzie to play.

“Well, now that that is taken care of,” Mycroft scoffed. “Shall we move on to discuss other matters? Ms. Hooper, would you be so kind as to babysit my baby brother while I have a word with John and Greg?”

“Of course, not-“

A whirlwind of panicked energy blurred by to firmly wrap around the politician again, “My, wait! Don’t leave me alone again,” the child like detective whimpered.

“I am not leaving you behind, Sherlock. I am just stepping out into the hallway to discuss some matters that are not for a child’s ears.”

“I’m not a baby, Mycroft,” Sherlock protested. “I won’t tell anyone what you say to the adults.”

“I know you won’t, Sherlock.” Mycroft smirked, “Because you’re not going to hear it.”

Sherlock tightened his grip and crocodile tears sailed away down endless cheeks. “No, you can’t go,” he howled in the midst of his tantrum.

Molly patted the genius’s back and tried to pry him from his brother. “Come now, Sherlock, don’t you want to play with Shinzie?”

“Her name is Blackbeard,” he huffed.

“If you do not cease this childish fit, right this very minute, Sherlock Holmes, then that puppy will be sent back to where it came from and you will be one very sorry, little boy,” Mycroft bellowed. Wide eyes looked up to meet his own, looking pitiful and disheartened, but he did not budge. It would not do to have Sherlock think he could get away with acting like a brat.

John glared towards Mycroft, “Grown up stuff is boring, Sherlock, wouldn’t you rather have fun. I have it on good authority that you hate being bored more than anything else in the world. We’ll be just outside this door and we’ll try and hurry. Is that ok?”

Sherlock nodded and allowed the blogger to guide him back to an anxious Shinzie. He grabbed an offered tissue and cleaned up the subdued face before he handed the reins back to Molly. Molly sat down beside Sherlock and asked him if he wanted to teach ‘Blackbeard’ a few tricks. It wasn’t long before Sherlock was engrossed in the new activity and the three men were able to slip out unnoticed.

Once out in the hall, Mycroft set to business. “We have found our suspect.

“Where is he?” John asked, desperate to see the face of the low-life that hurt his best friend. 

Do not concern yourself with that matter, Dr. Watson. He has been detained and will be dealt with. He is currently under the care of D.I. Dimmock as it was a personal case for Lestrade. I trust that he will not be escaping and will pay for his misdeeds.”  
“You better be right, or you might have to bail me out of prison.”

“Don’t worry, John, he’ll be thrown under the jailhouse if I have anything to say about it,” said Lestrade. The cruel glint in his eye made it obvious as to why Greg was not heading this case. Though John didn’t believe for a second that Lestrade would mishandle evidence or do anything too out of line, he was sure the suspect would run into a few doors, so to speak.

“So, what will be done with Sherlock?” inquired John. “He can’t stay here, he’s suffered enough.”

“I agree. What would you suggest we do?” Mycroft conceded.

“He needs to be back home, with his friends, not locked away like a prisoner,” put in Greg. The DI wouldn’t stand for his detective being placed in another facility, not again.

“I see. Please tell me, how are you to make that work when he doesn’t remember any of you. You’ve seen his behavior, it is no better than when he was just delusional and hallucinating.”

The blogger and detective inspector froze at the statement. They hadn’t considered that problem. Really it wouldn’t be much different than when he was first brought home from the hospital, but Sherlock was in some sort of right mind now. He wouldn’t enjoy being with strangers, even if he knows he should know them. They could probably pull it off, working together, but it wouldn’t be best for Sherlock. “Why doesn’t he stay with you, then?”

“I beg your pardon?” Mycroft looked scandalized at the thought of babysitting an overgrown child.

“He remembers you, Mycroft, and to be quite honest, seems rather attached,” teased Lestrade.

“He’s regressed into a child; he’ll need to feel safe loved, now more than ever."

“I am not sure how wise of a decision that is, Dr. Watson, I am rarely home.”

“Well you can’t leave him here! He might be mistreated again, that wouldn’t exactly be good.” Mycroft puckered his lips and raised his gaze in thought. John sighed in annoyance and continued. “You know that I am right, Mycroft. It’s not good for him to be here. He will end up dying if we abandon him and I’m pretty sure you do not want that to happen!”

A long pause settled amongst the three. Mycroft was aware that John was right. If he left Sherlock to complete strangers, he would feel abandoned and would no doubt deteriorate. He does love his brother, even if he’s too prideful to admit it. However, he knew that Sherlock would not have his undivided attention either. His mind raced through different solutions. John and Lestrade grew impatient.

“Tell you what, you take him in, and we can come by to visit and check up on him,” suggested Lestrade, incredulous that this was even an issue. “Does that sound better?”  
“How will that work? Again, he doesn’t remember you.”

“No, but he knows who we are now. We aren’t complete strangers anymore. I mean, we’ve bought him a bloody dog for goodness sake!” exclaimed John.

“He’s right, Sherlock will want to play with Shinzie. Just tell him that friends are coming by. Or, make something up,” Lestrade recommended. “I don’t know, you’re the genius!”

“Fine, fine, you’re right. It would be better for him in my home than for him to be locked away alone,” Mycroft agreed with a heavy sigh. He had his doubts about this plan. “I suppose it might work out for mummy. She has been asking of him incessantly. This way she can see him for herself.”

John and Lestrade nodded. With everything settled they returned to Sherlock and Molly. The sight that greeted them was a Kodak moment: Shinzie was curled up on the middle of the bed, with Sherlock using her as a pillow, molding her small form. Molly sat on a nearby chair, reading ‘Treasure Island’ from her mobile, voices and all. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: If there are any types of scene's you'd like to see, please let me know. Or, if you have any story ideas you'd like to see written, I'd be happy to give a try. Hope you enjoyed! Thank you for all the reviews, alerts, and favorites! It makes my day!


	9. Saved From the Shipwreck at Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's adventure's continue when he, Lestrade, and John are kidnapped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!
> 
> It has been FOREVER since I last posted for SC, and for that I sincerely apologize. I have been working on a multitude of things and working in general trying to pay for college and such. I hope this chapter is good enough to make up for the wait. Let me know your thoughts.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't know own Sherlock characters nor the movies "Pirates of the Caribbean" and "The Secret of Nihm".

** Saved From the Shipwreck at Sea **

Mycroft called his and Sherlock’s mother the moment he was able to steal away from his little brother and his friends. He casually explained the situation at hand, glossing over the details. There was no sense in rattling the woman any more than what she was or was going to be. The young minded man had already begun asking after her, though much to Mycroft’s concern and relief, there had been no mention made of their recently deceased father. The matriarch of the family would be arriving to see her long lost son after her daily visit to her husband’s graveside.

Deep, melodious, childish giggles danced through the thick door and swirled around the older genius’s brain. The sound was all so wrong. Mycroft’s eyes closed tight, pushing away the haunting laughter. How could good intentions end so poorly? With a rub to weary eyes, the politician returned to the room.

Sherlock looked up from his play as soon as his big brother entered. Overcast orbs alit with delight; he jumped to greet the man. “Mycroft!” Instead of the expected embrace, a smooth hand grabbed ahold of his, dragging him to trail behind the slender form. Without releasing his grip, Sherlock plumped down in the group circle that surrounded ‘CandyLand’. The unexpected pull allowed gravity and imbalance to finish Sherlock’s intent, sending Mycroft sprawling in an ungainly heap beside him.

The government employee withheld a bark of anger, instead choosing to inform the man-child, “Mummy will be here shortly.”

Sherlock nodded, still engrossed in the game, “Yes, she has to go visit father first.” He pulled a card from the deck, moving his plastic player to the nearest purple spot, grinning when he noticed he was now in first place. His face fell when he looked up to gloat, and found that the rest of the room’s occupants were all staring at him, horrified.

“What?” he pouted, arms crossing over his chest, defensive.

“You remember father?”

“Of course, I remember father, My,” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Where do you think he is, Sherlock?” questioned Lestrade. The DI hadn’t known all the details of the death, but he was aware that it had occurred while Sherlock had been on his ‘hiatus’.

The look the young genius gave the detective said only how stupid he thought the older man was. “Father died, just last year; so obviously, he is six feet under the earth, in a gated community of death.” Sherlock flinched against his own words, unable to cope or understand the drastic contrast between his two mindsets.

The rest of the game went by with a somber air, the adults not sure how to continue, and Sherlock more interested in beating the grownups at Candyland. By the end of another round and a game of GoFish, the subdued environment was roaring and light again.

Mycroft won GoFish, and a sulky Sherlock challenged him to a match of Operation, with the others rooting for who they thought would win. This is how Mummy Holmes came to find her sons and their extended family. She watched on in silence as Mycroft’s steady hand held the metal tweezers, which gripped a tiny game piece not quite out of its slot.

Sherlock goaded Mycroft to finish his move, hoping the pressure would ensure his own victory. The door closed with a ‘click’ as the buzzer sounded on the game, a red nose lighting up. “Oopsie. Can't handle a broken heart. How very telling,” smirked the young detective, eyes squinted in triumphant glee.

Mycroft quirked a brow, but before he could get a word in, the Holmes’ matriarch stepped forward into the fray. “Hello, dears,” she greeted, eyes watering as she focused on her youngest. Her knees popped as she crouched down nearby, yet a far enough distance in case Sherlock didn’t recognize her or felt unease by her presence. “Hello, Locke.”

The woman needn’t have worried; Sherlock jumped up from his position on the floor to throw himself into his mother’s waiting arms. Unaware that his physique did not fit with his mental state, Sherlock was most confused when the force of his hurled weight sent them both reeling to the ground. The unexpected impact left Mrs. Holmes gasping for air, which in turn panicked her youngest son. “Mummy?” Tears gathered, ready to spill with a blink.

The others rushed to help the two up, John and Molly taking the sibling’s mother to the side to ensure nothing was broken. Lestrade tugged Sherlock up, frowning at his distressed mien. Mycroft stepped back to observe the chaos, torn between whom to go to. He didn’t want Sherlock sniveling all over his suit, but his mum was smothered enough by the two medical professionals. In the end, he stayed put.

“Da’.” Sherlock clung to Lestrade, snot and salty tears wiping on to the Detective’s jacket. Lestrade’s arms wrapped around the lithe genius; one hand massaged the back of his neck, intermittently twisting a curl or two, and the other rested in the middle of his back. Sherlock buried his face in the older man’s throat, sniffing pitifully. “Da’,” he whined.

“Ssh, lad,”Greg shushed as he soothed. “Your mum’s just fine,” he confirmed with a nod from John. “See?” He urged the man he embraced to look up; firm, yet gentle hands guided him in a turn.

Sherlock allowed himself to be manhandled, one hand grasping the lapel of Lestrade’s jacket, the other twisting at the hem of his own t-shirt. Greg nudged him forward, ignoring Mycroft’s impatient sigh. Once again, Mrs. Holmes spread her arms open and waited. Patience was rewarded as hesitant steps brought the mentally ill man in front of his mother, where he carefully folded himself into her.

They stood there together as one, swaying back and forth. “I love you, mummy,” Sherlock’s quiet voice broke the silence.

A sob caught in her throat. “Oh, my boy. My poor, baby boy.” She petted his raven curls, and rubbed his bony back.

Following the reunion, they all piled into the back of Mycroft’s black car to head to the Holmes’ Manor. They were crammed together for half an hour before the abode came into view. The outside of the property was lavished with colorful plant life and vast statues of sophisticated design. A large fountain rested in the center of the front yard; a cement pathway circled the beautiful, water display, as it led to the main entrance.

Despite the joy of seeing his mother, and his earlier clinginess to Mycroft, Sherlock had now latched on to Lestrade’s hand, refusing to release the limb providing security. The DI listened as the detective happily chatted with animation about the adventures he and Redbeard. Afterward, he moved on to the escapades he had planned for him and Blackbeard.

Sherlock hopped the stepping stones without a second thought, no wandering eyes surveying the surroundings. It was a stark contrast to his companions’ awestruck expressions and stumbling footfalls. Shinzie marched beside the group, on the edge of the pavement; as she went along, the pup would pause her stride intermittently to sniff something new.

Between the flowers clothing the earth, the liquid crystals raining and swirling into its basin, and the butterflies flittering to and fro, the surrounding estate was peaceful. Mycroft sighed inwardly; the quiet wouldn’t last with Sherlock back home. Perhaps his mother would stay with them until the boy’s mind was mended. Unlikely…but maybe if he alluded to missing her culinary talents, which wasn’t entirely a lie, he could appeal to her motherly instincts.

The grip tightened on Lestrade’s hand. The forceful jerk, as the young man surged forward, nearly laid the DI on his face. The tugging on his form pulled him, insistently, towards the mansion door.

“Come on! I want to show you my bug collection.”

“Darling, you’re going to hurt the poor man,” Mrs. Holmes chastised with a soft laugh. In one ear and out the other, her mild reprimand went unheeded. The young man drug his “papa” through the large, mahogany door, and past Mycroft’s waiting assistant as she held the wood barrier open.

~o0o~

The boys’ mother went straight for the kitchen, calling behind her that she would take care of dinner. Mycroft, Molly, and John trailed behind Sherlock and Greg, as Sherlock led the way to his bedroom. As they passed by each room, Mycroft would halt the group and allow them to tour each area.

Greg noticed Sherlock slowing and taking in his surroundings, lip stuck out in a pout. At the next stop, the Inspector tapped the protruding lip, “What’s the matter, kiddo?”

“This isn’t my house…” He looked around again, eyes resting on his brother. The outside is right, and it’s the correct layout in here, but everything else is all wrong.”

The politician pursed his mouth in thought. Unruffled, he tossed back, “We renovated most everything, Sherlock.” When his young sibling’s features darkened unexpectedly, Mycroft reassured him, “Fret not, little brother, your room remains untouched.”

“And yours?”

“Mine has changed marginally.” Mycroft expected Sherlock to ask the usual “Why” and was surprised, therefore, when the young genius simply continued to inspect each area.

After the tour finished and Sherlock had showed off every inch of his room, Molly went to help the boys’ mother with dinner. The men adjourned to the backyard to watch Shinzie and Sherlock play. “Hello, Mrs. Holmes,” Molly greeted.

The elder lady looked up from chopping vegetables to smile as the timid woman, “Hello dear. Please, call me Emma.” She handed the pathologist dough to knead, and returned back to her side dish. They worked in silence for a short time before she spoke up again. “I want to thank you, so much, for your kindness and the help you’ve given my son. I know you assisted him before too. He trusts you greatly.”

Pale cheeks flooded a deep shade of crimson, fingers stilled their mixings; Molly gnawed on her bottom lip. She nodded nervously, “You’re quite welcome. Your son has many who would do anything for him.”

Emma Holmes nodded. “Despite himself,” she laughed.

Molly’s giggles were cut short by Sherlock running in. Curls danced wildly atop his head as he searched back and forth. The one eye not covered by a black eye-patch, scanned the room. He brought his hand up in a silent “sshing” motion, the tip of his plastic sword grazing his mouth. The large man-child got on to his hands and knees and crawled underneath the kitchen table. The red tablecloth hid him well, with exception to his bared feet.

It was a hilarious sight to behold and both women had to stifle their chuckles. Lestrade came though shortly thereafter, expression a stark contrast to either female. He was out of breath and his mouth was set in a grim line. “Sherlock,” he called out, voice firm. “Come out this instant, young man.” At closer examination, Greg’s eyes were full of refrained humor.

With a knowing smirk, the matriarch asked, “What did you steal, dear?”

“Nothing, mummy,” replied the piece of wooden furniture.

She bent down and held her hand past the burgundy cloth, “Hand it over, Love.”

“I don’t have nothin’, Mummy.”

She waited patiently, hand outstretched, but there was none forthcoming. Disappointed, she stood from her crouch and motioned for Greg to do as he wished. She gave a look to Molly and pointedly returned to cooking. “Well, if you won’t help yourself, I can’t help you, dear.”

The DI knelt down and lifted the barrier up. His stern gaze bore into the younger detective. “Are you going to come out, or do I need to come in?” The responding shrug had Lestrade on his hands and knees crawling in to the tight space underneath the kitchen table. He squeezed himself close to the lithe genius, feeling the warmth of the body next to him tuck in closer. “I know that you were just playing, kiddo, but you’re not supposed to take things that don’t belong to you. And it’s definitely not okay to run away from us when we ask for our items back. Do you understand me?”

Pink lips trembled and soulful eyes flooded; Sherlock nodded pitifully. He brought up a sleeved arm to wipe at his nose and sniffed softly. “Yes, daddy.”

“Now, the booty you pilfered is very important, may I have them back, please?”

Sherlock scuttled out of his hiding place and led the way to his hidden stash. The pair found themselves back outside and in front of Shinzie. “Up, Blackbeard,” he commanded, the lilt in his tone unveiled his misery. “It’s the treasure for my release, Girl.” Shinzie rose from her resting spot to reveal a medium size hole that had been recently refilled. The young man dropped to his knees and together, man and dog, dug out the dirt. Sherlock reached in, elbow deep, and tugged a pillowcase out; head hung low, he passed over his stolen goods.

Lestrade pulled out three mobiles; pocketing his own phone, he walked over to John and Mycroft, a sullen Sherlock in tow. He grinned to each man as he handed over the cells. “The lad has something he would like to say, don’t you, Sunshine?” Lestrade’s grin broadened at the muffled apologies. With a ruffle to raven locks, he sent the man-child and puppy back off to play. “Aye-Aye, Captain Holmes, I spy a rogue squirrel escaping with some of your acorns…”

“Argh, get back here you foolhardy scallywag!”

They watched Sherlock happily chase after the poor creature, his first mate on his heels. Nearly an hour had passed by when dinner was announced. Sherlock sped past and plopped in a chair, ignoring his mother’s reprimanding look. He shoveled the food in, as the adults took their time and chitchatted. He was forced to wait, idle, while the grownups finished, though he was rewarded with a movie before bed, for his good behavior.

Mycroft chose the film, as he proclaimed his mind would deteriorate into nothingness if Sherlock picked. Due to the exhausting day, he hadn’t expected Sherlock to be able to sit through an entire show and still be awake. Therefore, when he chose “The Secret of Nihm” he didn’t suspect it to be an issue. He vaguely had recollections from childhood of watching it and if he can recall watching it of his own free will, it couldn’t be all bad. It was a cartoon, which should mean it’s for children, every child, unless you’re a traumatized, regressed, Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock watched with rapt attention, the adults were more amused with watching him than the movie. However, by the time the flashback scene rolled around, John was aware that this was a very “not good” idea.

As soon as the youngest of the companions saw a needle enter the rats and mice, his breathing picked up speed. The screaming began once the scenes of twirling genes flashed across the screen. Sherlock had worked himself into an inconsolable fit. Shinizie whined at her owner’s distress.

John swooped down and half pulled Sherlock to him. Mrs. Holmes quickly turned the tv off, effectively ending the torrent of disturbing images. Sherlock grabbed fistfuls of John’s clothes, ringing them in his grip. He buried his nose in his chest, muttering about not wanting to go back, _‘please don’t, not again.’_ Based on John’s limited knowledge of psychology, the Dr. was certain that Sherlock was having his own flashback and that it was creating dissonance with his current mental state. The silver lining was that the poor man probably wouldn’t remember it come morning. If they could just get him to sleep….

The blogger rocked his friend, hushing him over the pleas, ignoring the moisture absorbed on his chest and the wetness on his own cheeks. His eyes searched frantically for Greg, they had been each other’s rock for so long now that it just came natural. He looked as exhausted as John felt. Lestrade bent to be at eye level with the two and reached out to comfort the sniveling man, but was lashed out against as Sherlock recoiled further into John.

“No! No more, I-I can’t take it anymore. Please-“

The lights dimmed and music began in the background. ‘ _Sounds like Beethoven? Motzart?_ ’ John thought. He held firm to the flailing limbs, but swayed along with the rhythmic tune. Eventually the wailing quietened into mutterings and a blanket was placed across them both. The Doctor looked up to smile in thanks of the thoughtfulness.

He leaned back against the couch, bringing the tense form with him. He wasn’t going anywhere for a while, might as well get comfortable. Lestrade sat to his right, out of Sherlock’s line of sight, mirroring his position

Molly crouched to his front and whispered, “John, I’m heading out now.” She sniffled and wiped her eyes. “I’ve got Shinize. If he’s able some company tomorrow, and Mycroft is fine with it, I’ll bring Shinize back sometime in the afternoon.

Mrs. Holmes showed the pathologist out. When she returned she found three of the four men already dozing. She turned a motherly gaze to her eldest, “Why don’t you go on to bed now, dear. Tomorrow is a new day and it would be best to be well rested.” She patted his cheek, “I’ll be going to bed, myself, in a few minutes.”

“Yes, quite right. Good night, Mother.” With a small kiss to her cheek, Mycroft set for his bedroom.

Emma sprawled out a few blankets and pillows, spares from the hall closet, on the floor. She nudged first the Inspector, then John awake to get them on the pallet. She helped the blogger get her son positioned as well, tucked neatly between his best friend and father figure. Hopefully the floor was cushioned enough so that they wouldn’t have sore backs in the morning. The matriarch turned off the music, but left the lights merely dimmed; she checked the locks and turned in for the night.

Today had been quite the day, bless her poor boys. She hated to see either of her sons suffering, but the Lord has the tendency to work even the worst of circumstances into something beautiful. If nothing else, perhaps Sherlock, and even Mycroft, would stop withholding their emotions.

~o0o~

John awoke with a heavy weight on his chest. He glanced down to find Sherlock’s head, dead center, on his heart. He grimaced at the slight bit of drool dribbling from the side of his open mouth. He eyed the rest of the arrangement, following the too skinny form. Sherlock was positioned diagonal, his legs rested on Lestrade’s, pinning the man until the younger awoke. He breathed in deeply, inhaling the glorious scent of breakfast. If he listened real close, he could hear a faint, contented hum.

He closed his eyes, rubbing gentle circles on his charge’s back, hoping to drift back off again. The flash and click of a camera going off brought him back to alertness. He glared at the smirk on Mycroft Holme’s face. “Why?”

“My brother will never admit to this, it is merely…proof,” responded Mycroft, tucking his phone back into his pocket. “Breakfast is ready, if you believe it safe to rouse my little brother.”

“I think it would be best to let him rest, but seeing as we can’t exactly move without disturbing him, I suppose we can give it a go.” He swung a hand out to shake the Detective Inspector, “Hey, Greg, come on, time to wake up. I need you to be ready in case Sherlock doesn’t come to peacefully.”

Sleep filled eyes pried open, not yet quite alert. “I’m up,” he proclaimed, even as his lids slipped shut again. A light chuckle and the return of a persistent shaking had his eyes trying again. “I’m awake, really.” One arm propped him up. He blinked rapidly, becoming more aware of his surroundings.

“Good, I’m about wake the git who’s using us as a mattress,” he chuckled. The laughter grew at seeing Lestrade just realize that Sherlock was half on top of him too.

“Very well,” came Mycroft’s humorless drawl, “I’ll inform mother.”

Much to John’s expectations, Sherlock didn’t remember the previous night, and he was quite confused as to why he wasn’t in his own bed, but he took it all in stride and followed his companions to the breakfast table. Though much to everyone’s dismay, he didn’t eat.

“What’s the matter, Love?” She gazed at him in concern. “I made your favorite breakfast pastry…” Sherlock looked down, dejected, and nodded miserably.

Brows furrowed, confused, worried. Mycroft ignored the exchange, focusing on his meal. Sherlock wouldn’t eat with everyone staring at him, any more than he would if they didn’t acknowledge him.

            “Then why aren’t you eating, Sher?” questioned John, setting his fork down to focus on the younger man.

Sherlock looked up at him, bemused, incredulous. “No one said I could…” He flinched at the sudden onslaught of clanking and banging.

“Who said you needed to ask permission to eat?!” asked Lestrade; things like this was why he was greying early in life. He received a slight shrug in response. He caught John’s eye as Mrs. Holmes excused herself. “You don’t need permission to eat, alright? Dig in, kiddo.”

They returned to their meal and waited, watched. Slowly, Sherlock nibbled at his breakfast, and soon it turned into stuffing his mouth full.

“Slow down, Sherlock,” instructed John, chuckling to hide his alarm. “You’ll make yourself sick at that rate.”

The genius obeyed, eyeing the half-full platters that remained on the table when his plate was empty. Without a word, John refilled his dish and he and Greg stayed put until their friend was either full or done. They ignored him when he wrapped the three leftover pastries in his cloth napkin and slipped it behind his back. It would seem that his brain was not fully regressed. That could be both a good and bad thing. At least he was probably close to returning back to an adult; however, the torments he suffered were not something an adult should need to cope with, much less a child.

After the meal John and Greg left to go shower and change, with Sherlock in tow. The consulting detective absolutely refused to be left behind; Mycroft and their mother acquiesced that some fresh air could do him good. He didn’t latch on to either of them, simply trailed closely behind. Inside the cab, he leaned over, yanking at John’s sleeve.

“Look,” he whispered. “That man’s cheating on his wife with a nurse that’s aiding the ill woman. He’s going to kill her tonight.”

Unfazed by the random deduction, John and Lestrade simply nodded. Not really paying any attention to the meaning of the words, they continued to observe the outside world through the windows. When it finally occurred to them what was said, both heads whipped around to face the younger man. “What?!”

John glanced up to check if the cabbie was listening in on the conversation, not seeing prying eyes, he asked in a hushed voice, “How do you know?”

The genius pointed to a photo placed center of the dash. “See that picture? It’s got his kids, but it’s missing a part. So, someone’s been torn out, but whom?” Before either of his minder’s could get a word in edgewise, he continued, “You wouldn’t remove yourself, but you might remove someone you aren’t getting along with. He’s got kids; a couple of them are grown. If you’re that old, and you have adult kids, the probability is higher that you’re married. So, it’s his wife he’s disgruntled with.”

Lestrade continued to glance back and forth between the rearview mirror and Sherlock. When the detective stopped his explanation, as if it explained everything, Lestrade raised a brow in question. After all, nothing that had been said could be used to show premeditated murder.

“He’s got a lipstick stain on his collar and you can smell perfume pretty heavily, but it’s in the air, not clinging to the seats. If a lady sat back here, you would smell her scent on the fabric, not just lingering in the air. It can’t be his wife, she’s in the hospital, and they keep all those sorts washed off patients. So, it’s an affair.”

“Nurses aren’t allowed to wear perfume either, Sher,” stated John.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Perfume isn’t just something you spray, it’s inside hair products, lotions, etc. Regardless, it isn’t a fragrance used in any products at any hospital. Though obviously the guy doesn’t go anywhere besides work and the hospital; he’s clearly kept busy with driving citizens around London. So, he’s having an affair with a nurse.”

“While affairs are not honorable, they aren’t illegal either. We can’t arrest him on suspicion of murder, just because he’s involved with a woman he isn’t married to.”

“Watch him, he’s got a nervous tick, and his knuckles are white from clenching the steering wheel so tight. So, he’s either nervous about being caught or about a dirty deed he intends to commit…”

“Not necessarily, he could just be a man with a nervous disposition,” informed John.

“Unlikely, not with all the other evidence,” dismissed Sherlock. “He’s got a card sticking out of his book, there, on the seat, which has the name of St Jameson’s Medical Center. Underneath the name is a room number listed, as well as a phone number. It’s not a hospital phone number, their area code is 892; it’s a mobile, it starts with, 901. He’s not ill, so, clearly, his wife is currently receiving care. He may visit his wife to keep up appearance, but he’s seeing another woman too. One he’s serious about, if that small, black, velvet box is any indication.”

“That still doesn’t prove anything, kiddo,” stated the Inspector.

With a heavy sigh and a weary look, Sherlock summed up, “The cabdriver has a sick wife, whom is receiving care from a woman he is having an affair with. He wants to marry his mistress, obviously, but they still have the Mrs. in the way. Therefore, he is nervous because they have planned to get rid of her. Though, it must not be working as quickly as they had intended. The nurse has been slipping unneeded drugs in the woman’s IV, in hopes of making it seem her death was due from natural causes. I would highly recommend going to investigate Mr. Cab Driver’s wife’s sudden illness.”

It was so much like normal times, that John and Lestrade nearly forgot that things still weren’t quite right. They blinked rapidly, taking in all the information. They went between staring at each other and then at a proud Sherlock, forgetting the need to keep an eye on their chauffeur. “Sherlock, we can’t just waltz into a hospital and start looking into a matter in which we have no evidence, and there are no suspicions,” Lestrade explained, exasperated. “It’s not even my jurisdiction!”

“I practically hand you a murderer, before he kills, and you’re just going to ignore it and let it happen?!”

“Sherlock, everything you’ve said is circumstantial, nothing can be proven unless we investigate and we can’t investigate without cause. I can’t exactly call it in, just based on your deductions. Granted, you’re usually right, but we have to go by protocol here or it would all be out the window anyway.”

Sherlock groaned at the Inspector’s response. “Idiot,” Sherlock mumbled under his breath.

John rolled his eyes at the usual childishness. He turned to focus on the view outside of the window, intending to ignore the two’s argument; realization struck him when he recognized their passing surroundings as off course. “Greg?” John gained the attention of the bickering men. “We might have a problem here.”

Finding what held the doctor captivated, Lestrade’s first instinct was to grab for his gun. He mentally berated himself when his hand met just his trousers. He looked at the rearview mirror and locked eyes with a knowing cabdriver.

The cab drove passed by the road that turned on to Baker Street, and continued on through familiar streets. The doors locked as the car slowed at a stoplight. “I wish you would have just minded your own business,” came an ominous voice. The driver continued to watch them with a wicked gleam in his eye.

He grabbed his phone and dialed a number. As the light turned green, he spoke with sarcastic humor, “Henry! I got some new play-toys for you.” Mobile tucked between his cheek and shoulder, the man leaned forward, one hand on the steering wheel, the other grappling for something under his seat. When he lifted back up, metal glinted in the sunlight. “Yeah, I’m on my way there, now.” He looked back at them, flashing yellow teeth. “Be ready, they’re going to be feisty.”

Lestrade, who sat behind the driver’s seat, went to grab at the man, but was stopped short when the metal item the cabbie held came into clear view. A revolver, loaded and ready for a target. This wasn’t the first time anyone of them had been threatened with a gun, but usually they were all in tip top shape, not with one indisposed and the other two babysitting.

“I wouldn’t if I were you…” he warned. Go ahead and toss your phones and wallets onto the floorboards. You won’t be needing them any longer.”

Lestrade and Watson done as instructed, but Sherlock did not move. The youngest of the group sat still, face pinched in a sneer. His glare did not faze the captor, who snarled back.

“You too, pretty boy.”

“He doesn’t have one,” John went to explain, “Either of them.”

“Oh, don’t pull that crap with me. You can’t tell me that someone so educated, so posh, doesn’t have a wallet and phone. Give it up!” he commanded.

“Turn out your pockets, Sherlock,” John instructed, worry lacing his voice.

“I don’t have money or a phone. Mummy wouldn’t let me have any,” complained Sherlock, even as he pulled out his pocket’s contents. His right hand revealed an eye patch, a train whistle, and a bandana with skulls scattered across the material. His left hand brought out the three, wrapped pastries.

“Anything else?” the criminal asked, skimming over the pajama clad body. He nodded to himself. “You’re a nutter, aren’t you? One of those freaks that are super smart in one area, but useless in everything else…” He focused back on the road, calling back, “Toss the whistle and I’ll let you keep the rest, yeah?” he mocked with a smirk.

Frown turned to a pucker, “But then I won’t be able to call the men on deck.”

The man chuckled, “That’s sorta the point, bud.”

“But who will clean the poop deck or be the look out?” The insistent pout would have been endearing, if their situation wasn’t close to dire. Sherlock tugged at a gold bracelet that hung off his ear, acting like a buccaneer’s earring.

John pulled the hand away from the piece of jewelry, patting the back of the appendage in comfort. “We can play later, Sher. Right now I need for you to sit tight and play the quiet game.”

“Be a good boy and listen to everything John and I tell you and we’ll take you to see ‘Pirates of the Caribbean’, okay?”

Sherlock nodded, subdued, wringing his bandanna in his hands. The cabdriver chuckled meanly, “You’ll soon see who’s calling the shots, Inspector.”

They drove for a while longer, no more than half an hour. They parked in a driveway of a quaint house. The yellow outer layer with blue shutters gave a warm and inviting feeling. Children were playing in the neighboring gardens. It almost made it seem that this was all just some sick joke.

~o0o~

Alarms alerted the staff to danger. Red lights flashed in warning of an imminent threat. Anthea’s head shot up and took in the information on the screen before her. She pulled out her phone, quickly firing off a text to her boss. He would want to know of this, regardless of his meeting with the Prime Minister.

The ear piercing blare of noise that brought their attention to the potential peril would only cease once the initiating button had been released. Apparently the culprit did not believe that his point had been made, or the danger was in need of a more immediate handling. There was no way to contact their monitored ward, and therefore, everything that could be done, was being done, and they would simply have to deal with the insistent ringing until things were calm once more. Anthea saw a paid vacation in her near future as reward for patience and coping with a splitting headache.

With that last thought, the assistant hastened her steps out of the room, barely remembering to conceal her grin behind concern. She melted back into her role, stoic and actively resolving problems before they even became so. Time for a rescue mission.

~o0o~

They dragged their feet as they were marched into the house. The man that the cab driver had previously informed about them was as normal looking as the house they reluctantly entered. Lestrade and John entered first, Sherlock followed third with their original kidnapper.

He wasn’t dumb; he knew that the danger was real. He was aware that his deduction had been overheard, and that the accused was offended by it. The gun had been unexpected, but he wasn’t afraid. The tremors that overtook his slight form were from excitement. Gun pressed tight to his lower back and a guiding hand clamped on his shoulder, Sherlock walked with a smile plastered on his face and a spring in his step. He was enjoying this game.

They would be out before much of the fun could happen. Big brother was already on his way, the genius knew. So for now, as long as John and Greg were willing, he was going to play along. He stuffed his bandanna and eye patch back into his pocket; best not to make sudden moves to put them on, until the weapon was no longer aimed at him.

~o0o~

Herded into a back bedroom, window boarded up, the three men were secured to one another by handcuffs enclosed around their ankles. Ropes forced John and Greg’s wrists together at their stomachs. Sherlock eluded the confinement of one of his hands due to his adamant whining that he couldn’t play tied up.

The second man, identified as a butcher, named Tony, threatened to gag and chop off his fingers if the childlike genius didn’t shut up. However, the threat didn’t have the desired effect, if nothing else, Sherlock chattered and bugged them more. Despite the seriousness, both of his friends smirked. The self-proclaimed sociopath had a knack for being a pain in anyone’s butt.

Grumbling on their way out, the two kidnappers finally left the three alone again. What they had planned was unknown, but still weighed heavy on the inspector and doctor. Sherlock, carefree as ever, took out his danishes and sat happily munching away. When a rumble of a stomach caught his attention, he looked from his friends to his prized possessions. After a couple of back and forth glances, his lips turned down. Sherlock sighed heavily and set a pastry on each of their laps.

John huffed a, grimly, amused laugh, “Thank you, Sher, but you go ahead. I can’t quite reach it to my mouth anyhow.” He looked over to the hilarious sight of Lestrade bent in half, one bite missing from the pastry. His head and hands were bobbing in time together, trying to get the food closer to his mouth, made harder with it now missing a piece, which made it smaller.

Ignoring John, Sherlock continued to eat. Once finished he held up the given food to their mouths simultaneously. Arms remained outstretched, unwavering, until they were finished. His lips turned upright at their mumbled thanks and quiet praise.

Afterward, time passed slowly; droplets of sweat slid down foreheads and necks. The only noise breaking the silence was Sherlock’s extravagant duel with his imaginary foe. Captain Hook, much like character in the beloved children’s movie, ‘Peter Pan’, had a hook for a hand. However, apparently, he had much more skill and intellect. “Ha, ha,even you can’t outwit me, Hook! I’m the greatest pirate to ever exist!”

One of the madmen returned, gun in one hand, a set of keys in the other. Lestrade startled, trying to ready himself. As their captor squatted to eye level with the detective, John struggled against his bonds, lip curled into a snarl, in effort to protect his young friend. Sherlock was curious, and willingly waited, docile as a kitten, for the man to unlock his shackles. He treaded along, once freed, unheeding his friend’s objections.

Sherlock followed the guy into an overly cheerful kitchen, sitting in a proffered chair. Bemused, he took in the happy yellow décor, searching for the catch. A plate with two slices of pizza was set before him, the heavenly aroma made his mouth water. His minder took the sear to Sherlock’s right, hand still clasped on the food covered dish.

“You must be hungry, huh?” he was asked, gentle, genuinely wanting to know.

A fervent nod answered, tongue darting out to lick lips in anticipation. Sherlock’s hand reached out on its own accord; just as his fingertips hovered over the largest of the pieces, heat rising to nip at the tips, his hand received a sharp slap.

“Now, before you dig in,” the man tsked. “It’s common courtesy to show your appreciation for a gift.”

“Thank y-“

“Yes, yes,” he cut Sherlock off. “I was hoping for something a bit more meaningful than wooded words.”

Sherlock tilted his head, searching. “You want me to tell you about papa.” Eyes downcast, moisture filling them up, his lip protruded into a pout as he stated the conclusion he had found.

“I don’t care anything about your father, boy. I want to know about you,” came the exasperated voice. “You’re little trick could come in handy, ya know. Could make a lot of dough. Ever thought about marketing it, selling yourself, so to speak?”

Sherlock’s jaw tightened, body went rigid, instantly on the defense. “It’s not a parlor trick, I just observe. Everyone sees the same as I, they just don’t observe.”

“Which makes you unique, kid…special. I was thinking we might show you off to some of our friends and whatever we get, we could give you a cut.”

“I’m not a circus attraction…” he hesitated. “What about my friends?”

“Well, so long as you cooperate, don’t try any funny stuff, I don’t see why they couldn’t continue to live.”

“You’d let them go?”

“No, I didn’t say that now. They’ve seen too much; they would remain here, but they wouldn’t be dead. Heck, when you weren’t working, we’d let you stay with them,” the man chuckled, as if he was doing Sherlock a favor.

Arms crossed tight across his chest, lips pulled in a thin line, Sherlock shook his head. “No, that doesn’t sound all that great. I would like to go back to papa and John now, if you please.”

The pleasant smile vanished, yellow teeth bared in a grit, “Ungrateful, little wretch.” The sound of his hand slapping the skin of Sherlock’s cheek echoed throughout the house. He grabbed the detective’s arm roughly, hauling him back to the room where Lestrade and John awaited, ignoring the tears welling up in his victims eyes.

Even with his ears ringing, Sherlock could hear a commotion erupting toward the front of the abode. He hid his grin behind sniffles as he was flung at his friends. He quickly buried himself against the warm comfort of John, gripping at Greg’s hand.

His two friends glared at the retreating form of their captor, who headed out to see what the noise was about, and then worked together to get Sherlock sat up. John grasped Sherlock’s cheeks, raising his head into the light. The red handprint stood out against the tears streaked, alabaster skin. “Are you ok, ‘Locke?”

Sherlock nodded enthusiastically, grinning from ear to ear, as he wiped his face clean. “Mycroft’s come. We can go watch the movie now!”

His friends looked dubious, until the man in question burst in behind his agents. The politician examined the scene closely as his men made sure the room was clear. Sherlock broke free of John and ran to his brother. “I knew you’d come, Myc!”

“Yes, good boy in remembering to press the panic button,” the older man patted his little brother’s head. “I knew your bandana had a use afterall.” His eyes hardened when he caught sight of the red. He gripped the boy’s chin and turned his head to examine the damage. “Pardon me a moment, Sherlock. Go free the good inspector and doctor. I need to take care of something.”

As promised, after changing clothes and making a statement for the police, John and Greg concluded the day with taking Sherlock to the cinema. John was pleased, that despite their adventure for the day, Sherlock didn’t seem any worse for the wear. In fact, upon seeing the end result of Mycroft’s quick errand, he had smirked and made a Sherlockian, smart butt remark. Of course, the culprit had had that broken nose coming, but even so.

~0o0~

A couple weeks later found Sherlock sat on the floor, playing with a pirate ship he’d built out of legos. His childlike adventure was made real with voices and sound effects. “Argh,” the deep baritone took on a scratchy sound. “You dare to defy me? Me first mate, Blackbeard, and I, are going to sink your ship!” The puppy beside him lay on her belly watching the intense battle scene, tail wagging and tongue hanging out. She let out a loud bark when the brick ship crashed and broke apart. “That’s right, Blackbeard; they won’t be bothering us again,” Sherlock smirked.

“Captain Holmes, your brother has informed me that he is running behind in his meeting. I am to fix your lunch and you are to eat and playing quietly. What would you prefer for lunch: a peanut butter and jelly sandwich or chicken and chips?” The woman named Anthea smiled at him. She was nice, and told him funny secrets about Mycroft, so Sherlock had taken an instant liking to her.

The young genius looked disheartened that his brother would not be joining him for their meal. He gave his choices a thought. He wanted chicken and rice, but if he settled for chicken with chips, then he could share with Mycroft. As long as he was quiet, Mycroft wouldn’t mind him visiting the politician for supper.

Sherlock made his request, withholding the triumphant grin, and went back to his game. The pirate ship was destroyed, but now he and Blackbeard needed to decide if they wanted to save the crew and integrate them into their own swashbuckling bunch. In the end, Blackbeard acted as his Captain’s conscious and they rescued the ailing members.

The assistant came back in, a steaming basket of chicken tenders and potato strips in hand. She set the kiddy meal in front of Sherlock, on a small children’s tray for spill preventive. When Anthea sauntered back to the kitchen for a honey sauce, Sherlock grabbed the colorful, Bill Nye the Science Guy, food tray and ambled his way to his brother’s home office. He peeked inside through the crack of the door.

Mycroft sat in his black chair with the fun wheels and circular motion, facing the computer, angled partially away from the door. His fingers were steepled under his chin, elbows planted firmly on the desk before him. He was watching something, possibly a movie. ‘ _I like movies_!’ Sherlock thought excitedly.

Sherlock bounced excitedly on the balls of his feet, anticipating when his brother would pause the video he was immersed in, so he could storm in. The noise emitting from the laptop didn’t sound like a happy pirate movie… It sounded scary, like someone was in real pain, like the bad guys weren’t just pretending to be mean.

“I’m coming for you, Sherlock,” an ominous voice called menacingly. “I’m coming to get you!”

A shiver ran down his spine. He knew that voice. ‘ _Where do I know that voice? How does the voice know my name_?!’ A sharp clatter brought him out of his thoughts, only to realize he’d dropped his meal and had gained the attention of the household.

Trembling legs carried him away from the scene, away from the danger. He was on autopilot as memories bombarded him: children surrounding him, laughing, mocking; nuzzling against Readbeard’s silky fur as they injected the dog with a lethal substance. Hands pounded flesh, knives sliced through paper skin; blood, vomit, urine, choked him. He couldn’t breathe, heart thudded hard against his ribs, and his legs hurt. but refused to stop or even slow.

‘ _Permission required. Didn’t ask to run. Going to be in so much trouble. They are going to be so angry_.’

~0o0~

Mycroft’s head shot up, eyes wide in surprise and alarm. The politician sprung from his seat, calling out to his little brother. “Sherlock? Sherlock!” The glazed over orbs had Mycroft more than a little concerned, and as he neared enough to kneel, to touch, Sherlock took off. The younger man pushed through his assistant, whom had come at the clatter, and ran through the maze of the house.

Anthea’s fingers flew over the keyboard of her phone, sending messages to the necessary people, John and Lestrade included, before her boss even needed to say. She was on his heels when he brushed past her in a rush. They weaved their way through the halls; without Sherlock in sight, they had to rely on the noise of his keening and hammering footfalls that echoed throughout. The duo were soon joined by more agents. The stampede was sure to do more harm than good, but the help was needed and appreciated.

“Sherlock! Sherlock, come back!” Mycroft shouted, breathless. “It was just a recording, everything is alright!” No avail.

~0o0~

            Feet pounded against the earth, hurried steps gaining on him. He must speed up, but he hasn’t much energy left in him. His thoughts are everywhere at once, yet his skull feels extremely light; it’s throwing him off balance. He zigzagged through the maze of trees, methodically throwing his pursuers off his trail.

            They are calling out to him; all he can make out is his name. He doesn’t slow. He’s nearing the entrance of the forest in which he began, captors on both the right and left flank. He’s so lost in fleeing the people behind him, that he virtually missed the group gathering in front, effectively closing off his escape.

In despair, he sank to his knees, rocks and grass digging into skin. The pain grounded him to the happenstance around him. He fell forward, taking some of the weight from his weary knees and redistributing some to his palms and fingers.

Hands all over him: arms, shoulders, neck, head; fingers intertwine with curls, petting and pulling at the tangled mess atop his head. It doesn’t hurt. ‘ _Where is the pain_?’ Why are they speaking softly, soothing him? They should be yelling.

He chanced a glance through lashes and fringe, and the sight before him is not one he would have ever expected. John Watson, his best friend, is kneeling in front of him looking worried, offering comfort with whispers and gentle touches. The Dr. is assessing him, much like Sherlock used to assess him. Sherlock launches at his blogger, clawing his way into a waiting lap. Warm and steady arms encircle him; Sherlock weeps. His John is with him now. He doesn’t know where here is or if he’s asleep, awake, or dead, but everything will be alright. His John is with him now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Please let me know your thoughts! I am working on chapter 10, and while I don't know when I'll have it completed, I do have it started at least.


	10. Epilogie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock returns home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, its been a really long time since I updated. Terribly sorry about that. Between losing my muse and work, and other life interruptions, its been very difficult to get this written. Also, considering the long wait, and compared to past chapters, this is insultingly short. Again, so sorry. I hope you guys enjoy the end of Subconscious Comfort. I appreciate all the support and reviews. Every one of them made my day and I would read them often for encouragement. Thank you all so much. I hope this epilogue is what you guys were hoping for. Take care and let me know!

Epilogue  
Where John found the strength, to not only lift, but to physically carry his tall and lanky friend, heaven only knows. However, the doctor supported his burden, as if it were the most delicate flower that ever graced the earth, all the way back to Mycroft’s home. He set himself down on the couch, gently cradling his friend to him. The exhaustion from the flashback had set in, and Sherlock was now in a fitful rest. The thrill of pure, unhindered recognition took a backseat to the increased worry.  
Mycroft ushered his uniforms out the door, sending one for refreshments; Mrs. Holmes tutted. After a fond look and an affectionate rub to Sherlock’s cheek by his mother, the older lady went to relieve the agent from the task that she was better suited for. The politician stiffly made his way to the large window that faced the woodland they had returned from, putting forth a great effort to ignore the scene behind him.  
Mycroft stared outside the window, taking furtive glances at his baby brother. It hurt to see the vulnerable form. He was supposed to protect his sibling, not set him off. The politician grimaced, their ‘family’ was going to lecture and scold his actions when they found out. Good heavens, two shrill voices and two trained, volatile men… Perhaps he should make his escape while they were unaware of his transgression.  
Lestrade stood sentry, hovering nearby his friends, keen eyes flickering between the two brothers. John had Sherlock taken care of, all snug and at peace. However, Mycroft needed tending to. Anyone, with even a fraction of Holmes skills of observation, could see the guilt exuding from the very pores of the government official. It wasn’t difficult to conclude that what occurred was either, Mycroft’s fault or Mycroft perceived it as such and placing self-blame.  
Conflicted with the desire to give a protective presence and talking some sense into an idiot, Lestrade bounced from foot to foot. With one last backward glance at the resting duo, Greg stepped behind the contemplative man.  
Hands slipped into his trouser pocket, mirroring Mycroft’s stance. The hair on the back of the stout man’s neck stood upright as Lestrade breathing broke into the silence. ‘Patience is a virtue,’ they always say, and thus was rewarded.  
“He came in as I was reviewing the video from the terrorist that escaped.”  
It was the answer to the unspoken question and the detective merely nodded. There was no need for chastisement; it was blatantly obvious that Mycroft was already berating himself. “It triggered his memory, it scared him, and therefore, he ran off…” he summarized, unnecessarily. Mycroft nodded affirmation.  
“Well, what’s done is done. He’s safe now and it would seem back in his right mind. Buck up, we have a new battle to fight and you have a criminal to catch. Sherlock has more than earned, heck, we all deserve better than our own self-pity.”  
“You’re right, of course,” he responded, composure falling back into place. “ I- Perhaps…” he hesitated. “Sherlock would do better, now, back in your care,” he admitted, turning back to the window.  
Lestrade nodded. There was no need to comment further. He stood firm, hands in pockets, for a moment longer, before returning to John and Sherlock. Mrs. Holmes sat a tray of drinks on the coffee table and turned to hover over her son, petting his curls as she sniffed into a handkerchief.  
The bundle buried against the good doctor’s chest, huffed a lengthy breath as he relaxed deeper in the cradling arms. Lashes fluttered open, then closed again. Sherlock snuffled as his left fist rose to rub the sleep from his eyes. Lids peeled open and pupils focused on John. Sherlock’s hand lifted up, and fingers danced over his friend’s cheek, brows furrowed in disbelief.  
“John?” voice lilted in awe. “Are you actually here? Is this reality or just a figment of my mind?”  
“I’m here, Sherlock, and very much alive and real.”  
“John!” Sherlock cried out with joy. The wearied body jolted up, energy and life renewed, and wrapped his blogger in a ‘bear hug’. He pulled back, one hand still grasped firmly on the soldier’s shoulder, searching out another figure. “Dad!”  
“I’m here too, my boy,” Lestrade grinned as he reached out to the struggling form trying to get to him. “So is your brother and mum.”  
Sherlock nodded lazily. “Mrs. Hudson? And Molly?” he questioned. The sound of whining and clacking behind the closed doors caught his attention.  
Mycroft rolled his eyes, but, nevertheless, allowed the culprit in. “Both are safe and well; enjoying a pleasant evening in, I’m sure.”  
Shinzie rushed passed the politician and hopped on to the couch, frantically pawing at her owner’s legs. The puppy’s tail wagged excitedly as she shoved her cold, wet nose to every inch of the detective she could reach. Sherlock’s fingers tangled in her coal fur, scratching absentmindedly, calming the tense air.  
“Are you feeling alright, darling?” Mrs. Holmes asked from where she stood nearby.  
“Yes. Yes, fine,” he answered. He removed himself from John’s hold with all the grace of an over-excited toddler. He lowered himself beside his friend, arm to arm, thigh to thigh. The closeness spoke loudly of the desperate need to affirm the realness of this scenario; that this wasn’t all some dream or hallucination.  
The lingering silence was thick, slightly awkward. No one knew exactly what to say or where to begin. Precipitously, Sherlock lowered his gaze to his lap and fidgeted against the doctor, adding space between them. When Lestrade went to touch him, he flinched violently.  
Greg sat back in a squat in alarm at the unwarranted reaction. Sensing something very wrong, Shinzie began to growl and bark, the fur on her tail stood straight up. Fearful of the displayed warning, the officer backed away, pulling the Holmes matriarch with him.  
Mycroft cocked a brow. “Something the matter, Sherlock?” His hand rested on his phone, ready to call for aid if necessary. He couldn’t guarantee that Sherlock would still have a pet if it snapped and bit him. Mycroft was very aware of the damage that losing Blackbeard would cause his baby brother and hoped it would not come to that end.  
“I-I don’t know…”Raven locks whipped about as he shook his head with vigor. Eyes squeezed shut and fists clenched, confusion, fear, and frustration rolled off the young man in waves. Tiny crescent moons were beginning to form on the abused palms, from the nails pressing into the ivory skin.  
“What is it?” concern emanated in the tone.   
“You – This,” he struggled to articulate. He tugged at his curls, abusing his skull. His eyes remained squeezed tight and Shinzie growled for every flinch an attempted touch caused the cowering genius.   
“Sherlock?”  
“Just stop it!” he snarled in response; eyes popped open wide in surprise at his own outburst. “This isn’t real,” he quivered. “Just stop lying. No more tricks.”  
The others looked to one another, bemused; even Mycroft had a grimace of concerned confusion. How were they to fix demented memories? Sherlock was full of corrupted thoughts, unable to differentiate between truth and faux. Could time even heal that?  
Stress wore the young body, mind, and soul. In didn’t take long for a gentle snore to break the silence. Features relaxed in sleep and little wisps of curls fell across the glistening forehead. They heaved a collective sigh of relief and settled in for a long night of determining the next course of action.  
~SH~SH~SH~  
Sherlock woke up on a cloud. The white and fluffy textures cradled him on the edge of a beautiful dreamland. No pain, no fear, just pure bliss. For a brief glimpse of time, the genius wasn’t concerned in the slightest about what awaited him on the side of reality.  
The heavenly scent of bread and eggs wafted into his nose, triggering his mouth to water. The pink tip of his tongue darted out, seeking out the delicious taste of the food he was smelling. The closer he came to wakefulness, the more alert his senses became.   
Classical music, he identified as one of Beethoven’s pieces, drifted to his ears, muffled by the walls. Sleep crusted lids peeled open again, to find milky white sheets with the sky blue comforter. His eyes traveled from the bed cloths, across the room, meeting familiar sight. The sunlight shining through the window caught his attention next. He hesitantly pried his weary body from the marshmellowy haven. His fatigued form stood gazing into the outside. He recognized the room as his old bedroom at Mycroft’s home and the exterior as the Holmes Manor grounds. The birds were irritatingly cheerful so early in the morning. Sherlock heaved a sigh, mentally preparing himself for the other shoe to drop.  
Quiet footsteps creeped out of the bedroom door and continued down the hall. He followed his nose and ears, to where he knew a group of people were congregating; waiting upon him no doubt, if his door being unlocked was only indication. His hunched figure peered around the corner. He was right! They were gathered around the dining hall table, feasting upon eggs and biscuits with gravy. Upon closer inspection of the people, Sherlock froze as memories filtered through his chaotic mind. He knew these people.  
Sherlock struggled against the dissonant images; flashes of: a domineering terrorist hovering over him, taunting him as Sherlock cowered from the raining blows His flatemate, detective, and pathologist trying to behead him; Lestrade rocking him back and forth after a particularly bad nightmare, Mycroft humming along with “Baby Mine” on Dumbo with Sherlock wrapped around his brother.  
‘What’s real and what isn’t?’  
The detective tugged at tufts of hair in agitation. Pressure on his wrists and a distinct keening noise had his eyes springing wide open. John was crouched in front of him, effective stilling his arms. Lestrade was at the doctor’s side, gently extracting tangled fingers from the mess of curls. Mycroft stood in the background, ever watchful. It took a moment to register that he noise he was hearing was coming from him, even still. He quietened abruptly and allowed himself to be maneuvered up by his elbows.  
Together, John and Lestrade herded the man into the dining room. A cup of tea and a plate of eggs and toast were set before him. The others retook their places at the table and restarted their conversations, as if nothing had happened to interrupt before.  
Sherlock looked down at the meal and back up to the three men. “What-“ he croaked; clearing his throat, he tried again. “What had you been watching? Why was that man talking to me?”  
Mycroft sighed; he looked down and patted his face with the napkin clenched in his fist. “Eat, Sherlock.” Upon Sherlock’s protest, he continued. “Eat. Everything will be explained to you.” He waited ‘til his little brother took a tentative sip of tea and tucked into his eggs before he began. The government official pushed his chair back from the table and made long strides toward the tall window behind Sherlock’s seat.  
Hands intertwined behind his back, he started, “You were on a mission, Sherlock, when you were captured. We were unable to extract you immediately. Even so, after gathering Intel, I managed to send in a rescue party; unfortunately, you had already suffered a great deal. However, most of the terrorists were either terminated on sight or arrested. All, but one, that is. Your primary interrogator made a hasty retreat before we found him, leaving a video behind in his stead.” Mycroft turned back to face Sherlock, unsurprised to see breakfast forgotten, or the unmasked fear written across pale features. “Rest assured, little brother, you are in no danger and I will find this miscreant. I do believe I can speak for the good doctor and detective inspector, that we will not allow harm to come to you again, so long as we can help it.”  
Sherlock ran a hand through his bed head of raven locks and sighed through his nose. With pinched lips he nodded, moderately satisfied with the explanation he’d been given. There was no reason to doubt it. Even if there were, what difference would I make? He clearly wouldn’t know the difference for the time being.  
After a prolonged silence jad settled over them again, John cleared his throat. The action had the desired effect of gaining Sherlock’s attention/ The Dr. gave a pointed look at the food, then his friend, and nudged the plate towards him. He cleared his throat again, using his fist to muffle the sound.  
“I’m fine,” came the well-rehearsed line, even as the fork in hand was used to swirl intricate designs in the soggy eggs. The subdued expression suggested otherwise, but lucidity was an improvement there in of itself. The silence lingered over them, none quite sure what to say. Sherlock placed the utensils back down, no longer hungry and looked to his flatmate, “When will be going home?”  
John’s head snapped up to meet the expectant gaze. There was a vulnerable longing behind the dulled orbs. “I – well, I suppose today, if you want.”  
“I do.” He nodded his head once as if assuring himself of his certainty. He made to remove himself from the room, but Mycroft’s voice stopped him. Sherlock turned back to face him.  
“I have taken the liberty of restoring your good name. When the time comes, should it ever, you will be free to return to your work without worry of recrimination.”  
Sherlock nodded his thanks and returned to the sanctuary of solitude in his bedroom. He needed to regroup his thoughts, clean up his mind palace. He gave a wry smile; it was good to be home. Now, if only he had his violin.  
~SH~SH~SH~  
After a few arguments and the customary jabs between the Holmes brothers, Sherlock entered into 221B Baker Street. John followed suit, arms laden with a mixture of home cooked meals from both Mrs. Holmes and Mrs. Hudson. The motherly women joined efforts to fatten their boys up. Sherlock, for the most part, ignored the mother henning, but indulged their culinary efforts.  
Sherlock headed straight for his beloved instrument and set to work playing a beautiful piece by Beethoven. The peaceful melody, combined with the delicious scent of biscuits filling the flat, gave John a sense of life before the great ‘fall’. He was disillusioned to hear the occasional slip of a note from when Sherlock’s hands would clench or tense. It was obvious things weren’t back to normal. There was work still to be done before they were anywhere close to being ready to let Sherlock be alone, and even more before they could return to a semi version of life before. Regardless, big steps had been made. They were finally home, with music, food, and friendship. Greg would be back after work, Molly would be bringing Shinzie in the morning, Mycroft was man hunting a terrorist, Mrs. Hudson was cooking and Sher-  
“John. Stop staring at me in awe, like the day we met, and start some tea,” Sherlock demanded with his usual domineering attitude, whispering a soft “please” as an afterthought.  
John smiled, indulgent, and turned to do as commanded. Yes, his best friend was acting like the posh idiot he knew and loved. Things weren’t right, yet, but they would be. Yes, they would be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all again! Please review and let me know

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed! Please leave a review with your thoughts.


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